


Mysterion Begins

by indirectkissesiniceland



Series: Mysterion Trilogy [1]
Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Childhood Friends, Crime Fighting, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, M/M, POV Alternating, Team as Family, Vigilantism, post-grad AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-21
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-05-15 09:02:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 47
Words: 83,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5779753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indirectkissesiniceland/pseuds/indirectkissesiniceland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years of college didn't get Kyle any closer to figuring out what he wants to do with his life, but his friend Jimmy pulls through for him with an opening in the newspaper office where he works. Newbies have never been known to get glamorous work, of course, and Kyle's first assignment proves it: a filler piece on a costumed vigilante calling himself "Mysterion." When a dangerous situation brings him face-to-face with the hero himself, however, Kyle—and the growing number of readers his articles on the friendly neighborhood superhero bring in—seeks the answer to a question that burns within him: Who is Mysterion?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I  _owe_ _you_ , man!" Kyle said, holding the building door open for Jimmy.

"For the millionth time, K-K-K...Kuh-Ky..." Jimmy paused and took a short breath. "Kyle. You d-don't owe me anything. I'm happy to help."

Kyle followed him inside and to the elevator. Jimmy's crutches clicked against the linoleum, and he leaned his shoulder against the call elevator button. It hadn't been that long since they'd made their way through the dorm hallways like this together, Kyle following Jimmy's instructions on where to put flyers calling for applications to the newspaper staff or advertising shows for the improv comedy team.

"You didn't just 'help me,' Jimmy, you got me a job."

"I got you an interview. You got yourself the p-p-p...puh-puh...position."

They rode up to the third floor where the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ operated. It wasn't the  _Post_ , but for a startup newspaper, it had decent circulation. Jimmy had interned there as a junior and moved into freelancing as a senior, hired full-time as soon as he graduated. Kyle, with a double major in pre-law (per his parents' expectations) and English (because weeks' worth of internet research suggested it was the most versatile degree for job-getting), graduated with highest honors and no plan of his own for life in the post-grad. After a stretch of thanks-but-no-thanks replies, if any reply at all, to his cover letters and resumes, Kyle reached out to his friends for help before his mother strong-armed him into going straight into law school. Jimmy came through immediately.

"I sh-should warn you...the guys I work with are a bit pec-c-c...pec-pecu-pec...peculiar."

"Peculiar?" Kyle asked as the elevator doors opened. There was no lobby, no doors separating the office from the elevator; Kyle followed Jimmy directly into an open office of desks and half-constructed cubicles. The floor looked a bit like a rat maze, with a row of cubicle walls here and a corner there, separating employees very little. It was quiet, though the office would have opened an hour earlier.

As soon as the elevator doors shut behind them, a guy with frizzy brown hair and a red hoodie appeared by Jimmy. "Hey! This the new guy?" He reached out one hand to shake and clapped the other on Kyle's shoulder. "Nice to meet you! I'm Clyde Donovan."

"Nice to meet you, too. Kyle Broflovski."

"Has Jimmy warned you about us already?" Clyde asked, a twinkle in his eye. Kyle couldn't help returning a smile at his impish grin.

"He was just about to, I think. Said the guys he works with are a bit peculiar."

"'Peculiar,' huh?" Clyde laughed. They both looked over at Jimmy.

"Wow," he said after a pause. "What a terrific audience."

"He's not wrong," Clyde said. "He just wasn't talking about _me_ , that's all. There are definitely some oddballs in here. Can I tag along for the tour?" 

Jimmy and Clyde steered Kyle around the office, first introducing him to the older members of the staff: Mr. Mackey, the copyeditor, whose relaxed speech lulled Kyle into a bit of a stupor when introducing himself; Mr. Adler, who ran the sports section; and Mr. Principal, who covered the op-ed section and insisted Kyle call him "P.C." because they were  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ bros now, and whom Clyde later muttered only made staff because he was the editor's relative.

On the other side of the office, rounding a semi-formed barrier of cubicle walls, were the young people. Six desks were pushed together into a rectangle, five of them with desktops brimming with personality. One was clearly Jimmy's, organized, but with all of his office supplies in neon colors, a trademark of his "you're supposed to laugh  _out loud_ " policy. A plaque for serving as editor-in-chief of the newspaper and a small trophy in recognition for his comedy routines from the end-of-year student awards sat on his desk, and Kyle felt a surge of affection for his friend at their prominence. Beside Jimmy's was another desk in meticulous order, with high-end pens, an iPad, and a leather-bound portfolio on top of it, and a framed picture of a beautiful girl with dark ringlets was angled affectionately beside a blue stuffed teddy bear. Beside that was Clyde's desk, already clear to Kyle after fifteen minutes of knowing him. A PC laptop sat open with an internet browser on a social media site, while a handful of serious-looking papers were shuffled haphazardly beside it, littered with Post-It notes and uncapped pens; a miniature basketball hoop and ball sat on the desk, along with some Broncos paraphernalia.

Clyde stood behind his chair, putting his hands on the headrest and leaning forward. "This is the got-our-shit-together side," he said, lifting one hand and pointing to the three desks with a flick of his wrist. "Jimmy, Token, and me. We would've put you with us, but it was uneven, and we don't know you. Maybe you're a loose cannon." Kyle snorted. "So you're on the flip side."

The three desks pushed against theirs looked far less like standard office space. Across from Clyde was a desk presumably owned by someone who put the "space" in "space cadet." The computer, unplugged, had been moved worryingly close to the edge of the desk to make room for not one but two spinning models of the solar system and stacks upon stacks of photographs, mostly wide-angle shots of what looked like a guinea pig in various tiny hats. Beside that one was a desk barricaded by three large monitors and littered with half a dozen empty coffee cups, a dreamcatcher, and stress balls in the shape of a cat, a truck, and, surprise, a coffee cup. The last desk, across from Jimmy's, was bare and ready to be moved into.

"We put you with Jimmy since you're pals, but we can't split up Spaceman Spiff and the Milkman Conspiracy Theorist. Sorry." Clyde didn't sound a bit apologetic.

"I'm sorry, who?"

"Hi!" A friendly voice turned Kyle's attention to a tall man striding towards them and waving, Clark Kent glasses poised on the bridge of his nose. "You must be Kyle Broflovski. Nice to meet you, I'm Token Black."

"Yeah, I, uh, I am, yeah!" This guy was terrifyingly put-together, from his eggplant cable-knit sweater over a crisp white dress shirt to his perfect posture. He was probably on the fast-track to top of the masthead. Kyle relaxed when Token chuckled, his brown eyes crinkling in the corners as if he and Kyle were old friends sharing a private joke. "You pronounced it right! Nobody ever does."

"I confirmed with Jimmy ahead of time. That's kind of my job."

"Token's our f-f-f-faaaa....faaa....fact-check-k-ker. He also writes for the business section."

"I write for sports," Clyde said, as if it weren't obvious from his desk and work-inappropriate team hoodie. Granted, Kyle was looking at him standing next to Token, who was dressed for an interview with the governor, so maybe the office was more casual than he was thinking. It was hard to tell from the older staff members, who were all dressed like schoolteachers. "I also fill in a couple of business articles. Would'ja believe that was my major?"

"I...have no reason not to believe that," Kyle said, hoping he sounded more diplomatic than surprised. Business was another major with a wide breadth, he supposed.

"What are you doing again?" Clyde asked. Beside him, Token  _tsk_ ed, but Clyde didn't seem to notice.

"I'm an office assistant primarily, writing filler articles where necessary." The job description sounded even less impressive out loud, but when he thought of the alternative of attending law school, it wasn't hard for Kyle to be upbeat talking about it. "I know how to copy-edit and proofread, so I think I'll be working with Mr. Mackey some, too."

"M'kay," Clyde and Token chorused, matching Mackey's mellow pitch perfectly. Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth to stifle his snort of laughter.

 "I figured I'd introduce you to the staff bef-f-fore taking you to Vict-t-toria," Jimmy said, "but it seems like our design team isn't here."

"Coffee run," Token said.

"This person seems to like coffee," Kyle said lightly, glancing over at the desks again. Now that he was looking more closely, it seemed as if coffee lids were spilling over from the middle desk onto his.

"We have a Keurig," Clyde said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of what appeared to be the break room. "But Tweek's kind of a...uh...he's particular about his coffee."

_A freak about it_. Kyle had been able to hear the words as clearly as if Clyde had said them aloud. Before Kyle could ask what he meant about 'particular,' Token picked up the lull in the conversation. "Tweek's our designer. He does the layouts and typesets final copy"

"By himself?" There had been three people working on the college paper's layout and design, if Kyle remembered correctly.

"Look at the coffee, man, he doesn't sleep," Clyde said. Token pursed his lips.

"Craig does all the photo-editing, and Tweek's got a couple of standard layouts saved, so it's not like he starts from scratch every week. We mostly work with freelancers or at-home writers, too, so a lot of our content comes through Mackey or myself. And maybe now you. It's best if Tweek doesn't have to juggle too many balls." Token cut off whatever Clyde was about to say with a sharp look. "Tweek is a nice guy. Very sweet. A bit...nervous."

"He's a wreck," Clyde corrected. Token crossed his arms. "Don't get me wrong, we all love the guy. He's just a few French fries short of a Happy Meal, you know what I'm saying?"

Kyle leaned over to Jimmy and whispered, "What's wrong with this guy?"

"Nothing. He's a little jittery from the coffee and doesn't like deadlines."

"Ah, well, a weekly newspaper sounds like a perfect environment for him, then."

"Craig's the other half of our design team," Token added, pointing to the desk covered in photos. "He does a lot of our photography as well."

"Not the photography we ask for, mind you." Clyde rounded the cluster of desks and started rooting through the stacks of pictures until he turned up a photo and what looked like a scratched-up plaque. "Look familiar?" He held up the photograph: an old man sitting on a bench in a cozy, probably homemade sweater, looking out at a river. In the background, a bridge and the city skyline appeared far away through the fog. Kyle recognized it instantly. 

"This was in an exhibit of local young artists to watch. A touring exhibit all over Colorado! It was on the _news_!"

"Yep. Craig got to meet the mayor and have his picture taken and shit. Didn't get any pictures of the crew race we were covering, just shots of this old guy." Clyde rolled his eyes. "He only takes pictures of things he likes. _Super_ helpful, am I right?"

"But it won an award," Kyle protested. "It's a great picture."

"But we needed pictures of the boats to go with our half-page story," Clyde said, raising his eyebrows. "You need  _pictures_ to justify reading half a page of text."

"Kyle," Token said kindly, "I'm sure that you have skills and talent that will bring a lot to our office. Please don't think we just give jobs out to anybody who walks in."

The elevator dinged, and a few seconds later, a stack of coffee trays came walking around the corner. Startled, Kyle could only point, but when the other three followed his finger, there was no reaction. The stack of coffee trays, four cups in a cardboard holder balanced on top of another four cups in a cardboard holder, stopped in front of the desk littered with empty cups, hesitated, then sidestepped towards Kyle's new desk and lowered slowly. When both trays were safely down, the person who carried them straightened. His blond hair was a wild mess, like he rolled out of bed and didn't bother trying to brush it (Kyle understood the feeling, but his mess of curls were pretty contained compared to this guy's rat's nest), and dark circles curved under his eyes, inverted crescent moons. His hands shook when he retracted them from the trays.

"Hey, Tweek. This is the new g-g-guy, Kuh-Kyle," Jimmy said, readjusting his grip on his crutches. 

Tweek squawked in alarm, as if just realizing his coworkers were standing there. He reached up and pulled at a strand of hair below his ear. "Oh! Ah, um, hello. Jimmy told us you were coming, ah, but I forgot. I didn't get you coffee." His eyes widened. "I can go back! Ngh...!"

"No, no, that's fine!" Kyle said, holding his hands up in front of himself. "I'm. More of a tea drinker, actually." This didn't seem to calm Tweek down.

"This is Tweek," Token said gently, tilting his head in Tweek's direction.

"Gah! Oh, um, sorry. I should introduce myself." Tweek nodded to Kyle twice. "I'm Tweek Tweak. I do layouts."

"Kyle Broflovski," Kyle said, holding his hand out over the desks. Tweek shivered and didn't shake it. After a second, Kyle retracted his arm. "Uh, nice to meet you."

"Dude, where's Craig? Didn't he go with you?" Clyde asked.

Tweek squeaked and pointed straight ahead, a tremor running through him. Kyle followed the gesture with his eyes, turning to see that a fifth person was standing in his group now, and he cried out, jumping back and nearly knocking Jimmy over. Clyde and Token seemed just as startled.

"Stop. Doing. That," Clyde said, his voice an octave higher. The new member of their group shrugged. He had a blue hat with earflaps pulled down over his head, tufts of black hair sticking out beneath the brim, and a high-end camera hanging around his neck.

"This is Craig," Token said, sounding slightly more patronizing than he had with Tweek. Craig didn't take the lead and elaborate. "Tucker," Token continued. Craig blinked slowly.

"Can I take your picture?" he asked Kyle. Tweek sputtered behind him.

"Uh...what?" 

"Not like your face. Just your hair." Craig rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "It's like a poodle drenched in the blood of its enemies."

Kyle's face flooded, and he pulled his hat out of his coat pocket and jammed it over his head. Beside him, Clyde rubbed his temples.

"That's a good thing," Craig added. The guy had absolutely no inflection, every word delivered in the same nasally monotone. Kyle wasn't sure he liked him.

"Well, that's our c-c-c-cuh...cuh-c-cuh..." Jimmy sighed. "Crew. I'll bring you in to see Vict-tuh-toria."

In the very back of the open floor was one fully-formed cubicle where the editor, Victoria Principal, sat. Clearly she'd heard them coming and was standing to shake Kyle's hand when he and Jimmy rounded the corner. It had been a few weeks since Kyle met her at the nearby coffee shop for their interview, but she was much the same as he remembered, pleasant and collected in an oversized pink sweater. She invited Kyle to pull up a chair, and Jimmy headed back to his desk.

"Ooh, it's good to see you again, Kyle," Victoria said. She and Kyle went through the paperwork for new employees and she gave him the office handbook, a stapled collection of papers with standard guidelines, deadlines, and a style sheet. "If you have any questions, you can always come to me, or anyone else in the office," she assured him. He thanked her. "And, if you're up for it, I have your first assignment for you."

Kyle perked up at that. "Really?" He figured it would be a few weeks of going for coffee and answering phones before he proved himself worthy of an assignment, but Victoria nodded and pulled out a paper from a hanging folder on one of her cubicle walls.

"Ooh, yes. It's nothing fancy, since you're still new here. We do some small articles on local news, you know, filler pieces about three hundred words." She gestured to the handbook he held and turned over the sheet in her hand. "Lately we've been hearing a few stories about a vigilante fighting crime around Denver."

"Really? I hadn't heard anything about that!" A vigilante for his first assignment! This job was going to be even better than Kyle expected.

"It's only a handful of cases," Victoria admitted. "Most big news sources aren't taking it seriously because...well..." Kyle leaned forward, curiosity piqued. "This fellow is playing the part of superhero. He has a costume and a mask."

Kyle's shoulders slumped. His first assignment was on some wannabe superhero that no serious newspaper would cover? Great. Just terrific.

Victoria must have caught his disappointment because she added, "But he's saved a few people! He stopped some muggers and prevented a robbery at a family-run convenience store, and he delivered the criminals right to the police. Even if he is a bit odd, the people who've seen him say he's a hero."

Glancing down at the assignment sheet, Kyle could see that was about all the information they had to go off of. The only thing Victoria hadn't mentioned was the description of this guy's costume: a purple cape, a green 'M' on his chest.

"See if you can find out what he's calling himself, maybe get an interview," Victoria said with a bright smile. "It'll be a nice, easy introduction to the kind of reporting we do here at  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_."

Great. Just terrific.


	2. Chapter 2

Kyle wasn't much for celebrating mundane things like the first day on the job, but it had been Kenny's idea, and Kenny so rarely suggested going out and spending money that Kyle didn't have the heart to refuse.

Stan had been at work when Kyle got the call that he'd been hired, so it was just him and Kenny unpacking boxes in their new apartment. Kyle could still see Kenny leaning so far over the counter dividing the kitchen area from the living room that he was practically lying on it, blue eyes bright, crooked smile widening with every snippet of Kyle's side of the conversation. He'd barely had time to hang up before Kenny whooped and threw his arms up, disrupting his balance and sending him sprawling off the counter and into a box of pots and pans.

"Finally! Somebody out there's got a brain!" he'd laughed, on his feet before Kyle could fret over whether he'd hurt himself. A second later, Kyle's feet were off the ground, the kitchen and living room spinning around him, courtesy of one of Kenny's bear hugs. "We should call Stan! No, wait, your mom. Wait.  _Wait!_ " Kenny replaced Kyle on the floor and snapped his fingers. "We gotta celebrate. Let's go out to eat after your first day! Wherever you want. A nice place," he added quickly, wagging a finger at Kyle with mock sternness. "Or else."

Writer Square was close enough to walk from the  _Rocky Mountain_ office but far enough that Kyle was ready to sit down when he got there. Kyle spotted Stan's blue-and-red beanie from up the street. He was sitting in front of the old-timey candy store, a couple of telltale wrappers sticking out of his jacket pocket.  Stan's head was bent over his phone, and it wasn't until Kyle was standing right in front of him and clearing his throat that he looked up.

"Hey, man." Stan's face split into a smile. "How was your first day?"

"It was...a day." Kyle tugged the flaps of his ushanka further down over his ears. "Let's sit inside when Kenny gets here."

Kyle's mother had reacted almost word-for-word the way Kenny had, thrilled that an employer "appreciates my brilliant  _bubala_." Even without speakerphone, Mrs. Broflovski's voice boomed out of Kyle's cell, echoing off the still-empty walls of the new apartment. Kenny had mouthed  _bubala_ and snorted with laughter while Kyle tried to smack him with one hand, balancing his mother's praise with the other. His father and Ike got about a minute each to congratulate him before his mother was on the phone again.

Stan had congratulated him heartily in front of Kenny and, once they were alone, added, "Hopefully your mom will stop calling my mom now."

The prospect of going out to celebrate again sank like a stone in Kyle's stomach. While he and Stan had moved out to Denver for school, Kenny stayed in their little mountain hometown of South Park, working days at City Wok and nights as a mechanic. Stan and Kyle visited as much as possible, and Kenny came out to Denver infrequently, saving every penny. When his little sister Karen was going into her senior year of high school, Kenny insisted she apply to any college she wanted. Following a passion that bloomed from her youngest years of playing dress-up with her dolls, Karen picked a fashion design program at a private college, and Kenny wrote the check. They moved to Denver together, Karen off to the dorms, Kenny into an apartment with Stan and Kyle, seniors out of student housing at last. Stan and Kyle agreed beforehand that they would split the rent as long as Kenny was juggling both Karen's tuition, room, and board, and his own classes at a local community college. He'd pushed back, but they'd won in the end. For the last year of their college careers and the first of Kenny's, that had been the system. It proved to work well.

It didn't stop Kyle's mother from apologizing to Stan's mother for Stan's being the "only source of income" in the apartment this past summer. She didn't mean it the way it came out, Kyle knew; she had made the McCormick kids' lunches alongside her own sons' for a good chunk of middle and high school, and she knew Kenny wasn't getting financial help from his parents like Stan and Kyle were. As long as his mother's unintentional callousness never reached Kenny's ears, Kyle could rest easily. He knew Kenny's pride wouldn't keep to the terms they'd agreed on if he knew it was the subject of gossip back home.

A flash of bright orange caught Kyle's eye, and he straightened up from the bench where he and Stan were sitting. Kenny waved, his face all but invisible from beneath the protection of his faux-fur-lined hood. He pointed to the door of the burger joint, then wrapped his arms around himself and exaggerated shivering. Kyle gave two thumbs up.

"Stan." He pulled the red pompom on top of Stan's hat to tip his face up from where it was angled towards his phone in his lap. They met Kenny at the door and hurried inside, ushered in with one last burst of cold wind at their backs. Once they were seated, Kenny pulled down his hood with a  _whoosh_ , his face flushed pink from cold, blond hair sticking out in every direction.

"Soooo!" Kenny folded his arms over his menu. "How's the life of a journalist?"

"Less exciting than you think," Kyle said. He laughed. "Mostly I was working on copyediting and proofreading today. I'm reporting to this guy, Mr. Mackey, who's got a...like a scenic European documentary voice, you know? Good thing I already know my way around a style sheet. I was kind of falling asleep." 

He filled them in on his quirky coworkers, tour of the office, and the kind of general desk work he'd be doing most of the time. The lull in the conversation didn't come until their food arrived. Kenny groaned appreciatively after his first bite into his burger, sending chipotle mayo drizzling from the other side.

" _Ooh_ , good choice on this restaurant, Kyle."

"What better way to celebrate adulthood than with burgers and shakes?" Stan added, lifting up his foamy glass. "A toast to Kyle for being one step closer to being a real person."

"Ayyy!" Kenny agreed, lifting his chocolate shake. They both looked expectantly at Kyle, who rolled his eyes and lifted his glass to clink against theirs.

"You're too kind."

"So, you're pushing papers with the odd squad. At least you've got Jimmy to hang out with," Stan said.

"I kind of like the odd squad," Kyle said, shaking his head. "Well, except this one guy who's six-foot-scary and takes award-winning pictures of guinea pigs."

"What."

"Right?"

"Jimmy's the comedian, right?" Kenny said, plucking a pineapple from his burger and tilting his head back. He held the fruit up over his head and dropped it neatly into his open mouth. "You could've invited him."

"Well, I figured this one'd just be us. Jimmy didn't sign up to listen to me talk about myself all night." Stan snorted in agreement, but Kenny shot Kyle a reproachful look. "Besides, if I had any office dirt, I could share it uncensored."

"Yeah, it's not like we live together or anything," Stan agreed dryly. Kenny dunked a waffle fry into his shake.

"So, is there dirt?"

"I think there's some stuff to uncover, but I'm new. I haven't earned their trust yet." Kyle put on a voice like an overzealous nature show host but couldn't keep his composure to maintain it. He sniggered and licked a blot of avocado off his thumb. "Oh! And I didn't share the best news of all with you guys."

"What?" Stan and Kenny chorused. They hadn't changed a bit since they were kids running around South Park.

"I've got my first writing assignment," Kyle said with a slow smile. His friends reacted immediately, cheering loudly enough to express excitement without disturbing neighboring tables. "Yeah, wait 'til you hear what it's on. I'm covering vigilante justice."

"Vigilante justice?" Stan echoed. "In  _Denver_?"

"Yeah, apparently there's some guy running around in a mask and a bedsheet for a cape, delivering small-time criminals to the police. All we know is that he's got a big 'M' on his chest. I'm supposed to dig up some dirt on the guy."

Kenny choked and hit his fist to his chest a few times, covering his mouth with the other hand.

"Kenny!" Kyle jumped and handed Kenny his glass of water. He got to his feet, but then Kenny started coughing and grabbed a napkin, spitting a wad of chewed-up food into it and out of sight. After a few seconds, the coughing subsided, and Kenny took a deep breath. He accepted Kyle's glass of water and gulped it down until Kyle said, "Slowly! You'll make yourself choke again." He obeyed and lowered the glass.

"I'm fine," he croaked. "Bit into a big ol' jalapeño."

"Be careful!" Kyle frowned, eyebrows knitting. Kenny took another sip of his water.

"Yes, Mom," he gurgled into the glass.

They took the bus back to their apartment after dinner, and Stan apologetically retreated into his room to video chat Wendy, the overachieving girlfriend to lead all overachieving girlfriends, pursuing her master's on the east coast. Kenny and Kyle crashed on the couch in the living room, Kenny massaging his stomach.

"That was _so good_ ," he said, stretching, catlike. He kicked off his boots without untying the laces before sinking into the cushions.

"You guys didn't have to pay for me," Kyle started, picking up the argument his friends hadn't risen to in the restaurant. They'd just exchanged a look over their shakes, reached into their pockets at the same time, dropped cash onto the table, and dragged Kyle out the door before he could "start another scene," as Stan put it.

"It's a treat, Kyle, shut up."

"Yeah, but you don't have to—"

"Kyle," Kenny said wearily, letting his head loll onto one shoulder to make eye contact. "I can afford to buy you a burger every once in a while. It's not like I've forgotten all the times you fed me."

Kyle's face flooded. "I...I didn't mean..."

"I know."

"It's not like I think you owe me anything—"

"I know."

Maybe the second major in English hadn't done him much good after all. Kyle constantly found himself tongue-tied talking to Kenny, the words he never wanted his mother to say somehow finding their way out of his mouth instead. It never seemed to faze Kenny, at least.

"Hey, can you help me with my homework?" Kenny asked finally.

"What? Oh. Yeah, of course."

Kenny flashed him a smile and snuggled into the couch. "Gosh, I'm just so comfy."

"Want me to get your laptop for you?" Kyle asked, already getting up and heading for Kenny's room.

"You're my favorite, Kyle!" Kenny called after him. "Don't tell Stan!"

They sat on the couch for a while while Kyle translated Kenny's coding textbook from industry jargon and re-explained a few elements Kenny had written down in his notes with question marks. "I like the class," Kenny said. "Really. I just get a little lost sometimes when we get into reading."

Kenny had always struggled a little with reading assignments, and Kyle wondered if he fell somewhere on the spectrum of dyslexia. He certainly wasn't stupid; Kenny remembered everything, including stories Stan and Kyle had told him years ago that they themselves didn't recall until he reminded them. He could pull information from some vast catalog in his mind faster than Kyle could Google it, and he could think of half a dozen ways to solve a problem in even less time than that. As long as he was listening to a lecture, Kenny did well in college courses, but when the class turned to a book, he only seemed to absorb half of the information.

"Man, am I lucky to have you," Kenny said, typing in new code. Kyle could follow most of his assignment, but it went a bit beyond where his childhood hobby ended. "You know, I never thought I'd be the one majoring in this. You were always the smart guy. You still are. You get this crap just by reading it."

"You're smart, too, Kenny." Kyle frowned when Kenny lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug. "Besides, I just did coding for fun as a kid. It was never really my dream career."

"Yeah, and law totally is." Kenny finished another line of programming and paused to check over his work before continuing. "I just wanted a degree that had a little job security attached to it. Coding's fine. You teach it better than my professor, though."

"I doubt that."

"Scout's honor." Kenny drew an invisible circle over his heart with his index finger, his fingertip lingering over a slow-but-sure hole forming in his thin tee shirt. "I could see you as a teacher."

"You think?" Kyle leaned back into the sofa. 

"Yeah. You'd be the best kind of professor, too. Really cool and fun to learn from. And if it were a Friday class and your students weren't feeling it, you'd have that one kid in the back who makes this, like, vague, noncommittal observation about the world, and you'd totally go off on a passionate tangent about it for the rest of the period. No homework!"

Kyle punched his shoulder. "You're on your own with the rest of this assignment." He got up and headed to his room, wondering if Stan was still talking to Wendy (probably definitely).

"Wait, no, Kyle, come back!" Kenny yelped from the couch. "I'm just teasing! Let me make it up to you!"

"How?"

"With information on your mystery vigilante."

Kyle paused. Unable to resist, he turned around. Kenny hadn't moved from the couch, but he had stopped typing and had his attention fixed on Kyle. An uncharacteristically serious look rested on his face.

"You've heard about him?"

"A little."

"Okay, I'll bite." Kyle crossed his arms and leaned his shoulder against the wall. "What do you know?"

Stone-faced, Kenny said, "He's incredibly sexy."

Kyle wished he could just roll his eyes and say, "Good night, Kenny," the way he could have if it were Stan, but he couldn't help it. He laughed. Kenny's stoic expression was too much. Kyle nearly doubled over. When he looked back up, wiping a gleeful tear from his eye, Kenny was wearing his usual grin, blue eyes twinkling.

"So. Want to help me with the rest of my homework now? I think it's only fair. That was top-secret stuff."


	3. Chapter 3

"Thank you for your time," Kyle said. He shook the convenience store owner's hand and, at her expectant look, bought a bottle of soda and a party-size bag of chips to take home to Stan and Kenny. Five bucks was a small price to pay for an eyewitness interview, he supposed.

That morning he'd spoken on the phone with a clerk at the local police station for a quote: "We appreciate citizen concern for safety and justice in Denver. Though we do not support vigilantism, as it is incredibly dangerous, we are glad that this individual has chosen to work in tandem with the police. They have primarily done so through tips and information to assist in police work, leaving any danger to our trained forces." Kyle suspected that the cops were actually rather fond of the costumed character but didn't want to encourage copycats, as the clerk had him read back the statement twice and promise to print it in its entirety in his coverage. He assured her that the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ wasn't in the business of promoting vigilantism.

Leaving the office early to conduct research meant half a day at his desk and a full day's pay, which was a pretty sweet deal for the first week on the job. Kyle had gone through the neighborhood where the mysterious vigilante had been sighted and spoke with folks involved in the vigilante's appearances. Much of it was just fleshing out the skeleton of the story he already knew. A security guard at a neighborhood clinic told him about how the character caught graffiti artists vandalizing the side of the building, while a daycare instructor showed him a note left warning her that a recently-hired assistant had falsified documents qualifying her to care for children. Kyle eagerly took the note for any clues it might offer and saw that it was typed, signed only with a green 'M' in permanent marker. 

The convenience store owner he spoke to now was the most helpful interviewee by far, as she had actually seen the vigilante. She guesstimated that he was about six feet tall and described his costume: a greyish-purple suit emblazoned with a green 'M,' brown boots, green gloves, a black mask, and a dark purple cape. With some embarrassment, she added that he'd been wearing a pair of briefs over his suit, held in place by a belt. Kyle fought to keep a straight face.

"He took out two kids who swiped from my register while my back was turned," she said. Kyle asked her to clarify their ages, which she figured to be around twenty, and Kyle frowned to think that he was a "kid" in her opinion, too. "He had kind of a raspy voice, like the dark bat."  _The Dark Knight_ , Kyle mentally corrected, scribbling down notes in his memo pad. "He didn't look much bigger than them. Maybe taller, but skinnier. Skinny, skinny. I tried to offer him a pretzel as thanks, but he insisted that doing the right thing was his reward."

Kyle paused. "Were those his exact words?"

"Yes. Isn't that funny? Like a little superhero."

In the doorway of the convenience store, Kyle texted Stan and Kenny that he was on his way home and that they should do a movie night because he bought snacks. Kenny responded immediately with a string of smiling and party-related emoticons, and Stan's more practical 'ok cool' soon followed. It was getting to be six o'clock at the time of year when the sun set earlier and the chill picked up under cover of darkness. Kyle slung his convenience store bag over his forearm and flipped back to the beginning of his notes on the vigilante. Nobody had a name or any defining features about him outside of height and general body type, and both were communicated so subjectively Kyle was wary to rely on those details. At the very least, he had dropped the term "crackpot" from his thoughts. This character sounded pretty smart for someone literally running around in his underwear and a cape, and pretty by-the-book for a vigilante.

So it turned out to be a quiet piece of news after all. Halloween costume, sure, but mostly just giving tips to cops. Kyle inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled a sigh. He flipped his memo book shut and looked up at an unfamiliar intersection. Glancing around, he realized he must have overshot his turn. Another sigh. Nearly five years in Denver and he still couldn't get around without getting lost. He turned on his heel and searched for a landmark he recognized. He spotted the just-lit-up sign for a fast food restaurant way down the street. Jeez, he must have missed his turn by three or four blocks. Kyle headed back.

"Hey."

Kyle started. At the next corner, two young men stood in the shadow of a tall building. Though they both had the hoods of their jackets pulled up, Kyle could see that their attention was on him. He hadn't stopped or acknowledged them; he could pretend he hadn't heard them and just walk past quickly. It was only a few blocks. Kyle slipped his memo pad into his convenience store bag and let the handles of the bag slide down to his hand, in case he needed to swing it. As he neared them, Kyle crossed the street.

The other men crossed the street, too, a bit ahead of him. Blocked his path.

"Hey," one of them repeated. Kyle hesitated, wondering if he could cross the street again and lose them if he broke into a run. A threatening aura came off of these guys for sure. "Got any cash?"

"Nope," Kyle replied quickly, his voice coming out higher than he'd hoped. He made to cross again, but the second man blocked his escape.

"You get that soda for free?"

"Just ran out for a quick errand," Kyle lied, taking a step back. "Only brought enough for the snack." It was dinner time, why weren't there more people out on this street? Kyle could hear activity further down near where he should have turned, a bustling main road full of people. How was it they all disappeared a few short blocks away?

"Funny, it looked like you had a wallet when you paid for it," the first man said, elbowing the other, who nodded. He slipped his hand out of his jacket pocket, and Kyle caught the glint of a box cutter in his hand. A smile split the first stranger's face. "...What else you got?"

Kyle's stomach turned to ice. He should have just given them his wallet and made a break for it, what the hell had he been thinking? He put his hand in his pocket to retrieve it now, stuttering, as the two advanced.

A shadow fell from the sky.

At least, that's what Kyle thought he saw: a dark blur plummeting onto his attackers. One second they were advancing on him, the next—a scream, a grunt—and both were sprawled on the sidewalk in front of him.  _Run!_ Kyle thought, but his legs gave out from under him, and he fell to his knees. His hands were shaking. He couldn't stop shaking. The sidewalk spun in front of him.

Muffled yelps drew his attention back up to where the muggers, hoods pulled down to reveal their faces, were gagged with duct tape. They'd been dragged over to a street sign, their arms looped around the pole and duct taped behind them; they weren't going anywhere anytime soon. Looming over them was a dark figure in a flowing cloak. Kyle swallowed.

"Are you all right?" the figure growled. Kyle sucked in a breath that squeaked down his throat.

"Y-Yes," he answered.

"Good. Call the cops."

The figure whipped his cape—a cape, that's what it was—over his shoulder, and Kyle was able to make out a bright green  _M_ on his chest before he darted across the street into the alleyway where the two had come from. That was him! The vigilante! Kyle staggered to his feet.

"Wait!" he cried, running after his rescuer. Why give chase? This was so dangerous. What were the odds that Kyle would find the vigilante on the first day of his investigating? "Please, wait!"

Kyle followed the vigilante down the alleyway, which only stretched a short distance before curving behind a strip of buildings. Kyle rounded the corner and sputtered to a stop. No more than ten feet into the path, a chain link fence rose up between the buildings. Perched on top of a row of lidded garbage cans before the fence was the vigilante.

"Oh," Kyle said softly. "I...didn't think you'd actually wait for me."

The vigilante sunk a bit lower, crouching, really. Kyle couldn't see his face well, but he could see that the vigilante was wearing a black mask that covered everything from his nose up, save for holes cut out for his eyes. In spite of that, he was sure that he could identify the vigilante's expression. Guarded, Kyle thought. The vigilante was wary of him, yet he'd waited for him instead of climbing the fence. A tremor of curiosity ran through Kyle.

"Who are you?" Kyle heard himself ask. The vigilante stared back at him, his hooded cape a shroud of night about him.

"I am Mysterion." 

He had to be putting on the voice. It was unnaturally low, and he rasped out every word. Yet Kyle wouldn't roll his eyes at the performance. Mysterion wore it well, with a level of dignity Kyle wouldn't expect from someone who—

Kyle's eyes flickered down. Oh. He really _was_ wearing his underwear outside of the rest of his outfit.

A throaty chuckle snapped Kyle's attention back up to Mysterion's face. Kyle could feel his cheeks burning at the smirk he was able to make out in the dark.

"And...who is 'Mysterion'?" Kyle asked, blurting out the first thing that came to mind to redirect the other's attention.

Mysterion cocked his head to the side, seeming to ponder the question. The smirk widened.

"Me."

With that, he got to his feet, leapt off the trash cans and to a nearby drain pipe, which he climbed up to the rooftop. Mysterion hoisted himself up and over, disappearing into the night.

Kyle called the police and ran all the way home.


	4. Chapter 4

By the time he made it to their apartment building, Kyle's heart was pounding in his chest. He stumbled in through the front door. Still shaking. Usually he took the stairs up to their apartment, since they were only on the third floor, but Kyle opted for the elevator tonight. His stomach hurt. How long had his stomach been hurting? It wasn't like a sharp pain suddenly hitting, but a dull burn Kyle was all too familiar with. He dug in his pocket for his keys, fingers trembling around the grooves.

He shouldn't have run so fast and so far. Tonight was just not a night where he was thinking straight. He finally got the key in the lock and leaned his whole weight against the door. He was shaking too badly to turn the key.

"Ayyy, there's the man of the hour!" Kenny's voice was so close, coming down the hall towards him, but so far away, as if they were underwater. Kyle looked up, and the grin on Kenny's face was gone in a split second. "Ky?"

Kyle's hand shook harder, rattling the key in the lock. Kenny was beside him in a blink, a hand covering his to turn the lock and open the door. The hallway was getting hotter. Kyle felt perspiration on the back of his neck.

"My stomach hurts." Kyle wasn't sure why that was the first thing out of his mouth. Kenny's hands were under his arms, Kenny's forearms bracing Kyle's elbows as he steered him to the couch, leaving their door wide open, keys still in the lock. "We're gonna get robbed."

"We're not gonna get robbed," Kenny murmured. He eased Kyle down to the couch and disappeared for a second, just long enough for Kyle to lean forward and rest his head between his knees. Something cold tapped Kyle's cheek: a little bottle of orange juice. "How long since you last ate?"

"Lunch." Kyle squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Kenny unscrew the cap. A second later, Kenny nudged his shoulder, and Kyle tilted back up to accept the juice. He took a sip. "B-But I ran home." Another tremor ran through his hand, the bottle shaking, juice splashing down his fingers. Kenny's hand was over his again, steadying him.

"Okay, it's all right." Kenny's voice was soft. He sat beside Kyle on the couch and put a hand on his back. "Tell me about it in a minute, okay? Juice first."

Kyle sipped slowly, trying to focus on Kenny's hand rubbing circles on his back, his quiet voice a constant hum of background noise. From the time he was a kid, he stayed on top of his insulin and ate regularly. This hadn't happened in a long time. He shouldn't have run all the way home. He would have been fine if he hadn't run home.

The chill that ran through him ebbed, the pain in his stomach decreasing. When Kyle looked down again, the juice bottle was nearly empty. He breathed deeply.

"I'm okay," he said. He heard Kenny sigh beside him.

"Good. Okay. Good." 

Thinking clearly again, Kyle felt a spike of guilt. The relief in Kenny's voice was too strong, too exhausted, for how calm and gentle he'd sounded minutes before. Kenny was better at hiding fear than anyone Kyle knew; in that way, he was a good person to have around in an emergency. Much better than Stan, who went headfirst into panic mode when Kyle showed any of those early signs. Once he'd merely shivered at a cold breeze blowing at the bus stop, and Stan produced a juice box from his bag that he shoved in Kyle's face so fast he nearly took his eye out with the straw. At least, Kyle supposed, Stan came prepared.

"I'm sorry—" Kyle started.

"Do  _not_ apologize," Kenny said. He leaned back into the couch cushions, and Kyle saw that he still had his duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Did he have class this early? Usually Kenny did night classes so he could work during the day. Kenny let the bag drop to the floor with a muffled  _thud_. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. I need to eat."

"You got it. Stay on the couch, what can I get you?"

Scuffling from the front door drew both of their attention to Stan bursting in from the hallway. "Oh!" he huffed. "I saw the door open and the bag...what happened?"

Kyle spotted his convenience store bag at Stan's feet. He didn't remember dropping it. The soda bottle had to have crushed the bag of chips from how it had fallen. Before Kyle could explain, Stan's eyes fell on the juice bottle in his hand.

"Shit. Kyle, are you okay?"

"I'm fine." It came out more sharply than Kyle meant it, but he didn't want Stan going into a tailspin. "Promise."

Stan pulled Kyle's keys out of the door and brought the bag in. Kenny set up the rice cooker to make rice and steam vegetables at once, then told Stan he was on protein duty. While Stan stir-fried chicken on the stove, Kenny brought Kyle a package of crackers and a bottle of water and hovered over him protectively. By the time dinner was ready, Kyle assured his friends he was back to a hundred percent.

"I have to tell you guys what I found," he added. "My bag...?" Stan pulled out the soda bottle, which had in fact crushed the bag of chips. It had exploded inside the convenience store bag, and Kyle had to fish through the chips to find his grease-streaked memo notebook.

"Kyle..." Lines Kyle had never seen before appeared in Kenny's forehead, arcing into an umbrella over the worry in his eyes. "Did you get sick because of...that vigilante...?"

"No, I...not exactly. See, um." Kyle flipped through his notebook and saw that most of his notes were still intelligible. Good. He told Kenny and Stan about his morning phone call with the police clerk and his interviews. Stan nodded along, his expressions and sounds of interest all aligning with good conversation. Kenny remained furrowed of brow and silent. Finally, Kyle got around to the part of the story where he passed his turn.

"You almost got mugged!" Stan jerked forward, sneakers scratching against the carpeting. "Kyle, what the hell? You gotta be more careful than that."

"Thank you, Captain Hindsight," Kyle said. "It was...I mean, I was pretty scared. Then he showed up."

"'He' who?" Stan asked.

"The vigilante." Kyle tapped a finger against his lip and looked up thoughtfully. He'd told Kyle his name. "Mysterion." Kyle filled his friends in on the rescue and assured them he knew how lucky he was. "I'm going to be way more careful from now on."

"Good idea." Kenny had relaxed when Kyle wasn't looking. He was back to his loose self, draped over one of the armrests of the couch, empty dinner plate balanced in his lap. "So, that's why you ran? Called the cops and got the hell outta Dodge?"

"Pretty much," Kyle said. "Oh, but before that, I followed Mysterion down an alley."

" _Kyle!_ " Stan pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the  _fu_ —"

"That's when he told me his name," Kyle said. "I couldn't really see his face. It was too dark, and he had on a mask and a hood. But I kind of got a look at him."

"Did the descriptions match?" Kenny asked lightly. "What that store owner said about his being 'skinny skinny'?"

"He wasn't  _that_ skinny. Like, he didn't look scrawny, and he must be fit to have taken out those guys so quickly. The element of surprise only goes so far." Kyle flipped back in his notes. "Her description of his costume was dead on, though, right down to the underwear."

"Underwear." Stan's echo came out deadpan, but Kyle could still hear the question in it anyway. 

"He was wearing a pair of briefs outside his suit. Like how Superman and Batman look in the old cartoons. Actually, uh." Kyle felt embarrassment creeping up his neck again. "I think he might've gotten the wrong idea when I...uh..."

Kenny's crooked smile stretched into the shit-eating grin to end all shit-eating grins. "Why, Kyle Broflovski," he drawled. "You have an opportunity to get a look at a newsworthy vigilante's face, or part of it, at least, and instead you glance to the pants." He clutched his chest and faked a tearful gasp. "I'm so  _proud_."

Kyle buried his face in his hands. "That's not what I— _Kenny, no!_ "

"So, to recap, you were checking out Mysterio's underwear, and he was all, 'I just saved your life, my eyes are up here'?" Stan added. The bemusement in his teasing smile dimmed its power.

"Mysterion," Kyle and Kenny corrected.

"Cool, okay, I'm glad that's the part of what I just said that we're all focused on."

"I wasn't checking him out," Kyle groaned through his fingers. 

"Hey, man, you brought up his briefs." Kenny put his plate on the coffee table and stretched, lounging on the couch. "Must've made quite an impression."

"Kenny, shut  _up_!" Kyle dropped his hands, knowing his face was burning. "Anyway, that's my story, that was my day. What did you guys do today? Weren't we gonna watch a movie?"

"Yeah, movie night! How about  _Magic Mike_?"

"Kenny, I'm begging you. Don't," Kyle held up his hands, "say a word. I heard it as soon as I said it."

Not a word in response. Just that stupid, shit-eating grin.


	5. Chapter 5

"I still c-c-caaan...can't believe you met the vigilante face-to-face on your f-f-firrrst day of investig-gating," Jimmy said, looking up from the mock-up of the next day's paper. Across from him, Kyle folded his arms on his desktop, elbow bumping into one of Tweek's rogue coffee cups. Upside down on the mock-up in front of Jimmy, he could read the title, small, but bold in Helvetica:  _Who is Mysterion?_ It heralded a cube of text, three hundred words exactly, that chronicled Kyle's research and downplayed the danger of his own encounter the week before so that he could safely send copies to his mother back home.

"I'd say it was beginner's luck, but it wasn't really a lucky encounter. I'd rather not be in a dangerous situation like that again."

"Yeah, man, don't go crazy over a filler piece." Clyde pushed back from his desk, the wheels of his chair rumbling quietly against the wooden floor, and shot his mini basketball towards the toy hoop by his laptop. It bounced off the rim and right into a pile of Craig's photographs. Craig clicked his tongue against his teeth with emotionless disapproval, and Clyde grinned his apology. While Clyde retrieved his plastic basketball from rolling across the floor towards the break room, Craig reached out to shuffle his photos back into an orderly pile. The sleeves of his hoodie rode up his forearms with the motion, revealing a set of dark blue chakra bracelets and black markings twining up from his wrists, suggesting intricate tattoo sleeves climbing beneath blue cotton.

Kyle had to remind himself that Craig was actually a pretty boring guy who lovingly photographed his pet, and that all the piercings and tattoos were brands of badassery Craig probably thought balanced out his laughably nonthreatening personality. On Kyle's third day, he'd found himself alone with Craig at the bullpen, as the guys called their desk cluster, for an hour or so. He'd made an offhand remark about the guinea pig in Craig's pictures being cute, and all of a sudden Craig was right next to him, sitting in Tweek's chair and showing him pictures of his pet Stripe wearing different hats. Craig never once smiled, but his eyes were like the Fourth of July.

Tweek pulled himself closer to his desk, rolling his chair directly in Kyle's line of sight and obscuring Craig. "Ngh...! Nobody thought it'd be a dangerous piece. Your next assignment will probablybesupersafe _gah_!"

After a week on the job, Kyle had gotten used to him, too. How Tweek stuttered out the first half of his sentence and sucked in the second half like he was taking his last breath of air before sinking below sea level; how he couldn't keep still, whether he was rolling his chair back and forth or tugging at a lock of hair behind his ear; and how, after returning to the bullpen and finding Craig half a foot into Kyle's personal bubble chatting about Stripe as animatedly as Kyle suspected Craig could be, Tweek always positioned himself between them.

Token had apparently noticed it as well, his eyes trained on Tweek with a knowing maturity Kyle expected to achieve around forty. "Tweek's right. I'm sure Victoria feels terrible for putting you in that position."

"Nobody put me in any position," Kyle said. "I got into trouble from my own carelessness. All's well that end's well, right? Mysterion saved me, and I was able to verify information for my article."

"Dang, son," Clyde said, "you're making me want to put in effort around here." Token rolled his eyes.

"So...what was he lik-kuh?" Jimmy asked, stumbling on his last syllable.

"Mysterion?" Kyle willed himself not to flush. Stan was more or less over the vigilante story now that Kyle was safe and the encounter was a thing of the past, but Kenny slipped Mysterion's choice of costume into conversation more than once with an impish smile. Kyle had snapped over the weekend, giving Kenny a stern lecture on letting things go, and that had been the end of the jokes out loud, but Kyle knew Kenny well enough to recognize in his occasional smirk that he was still thinking about it. "He was...I don't know. More intimidating than I was expecting. To be honest, I was half-convinced he was some drunk college student a few weeks early for Halloween."

"That would've been my first guess, too," Token said. 

"He was kind of cool," Kyle admitted. "I get why the police statement didn't outright trash him. He plays by the rules, but he's still a vigilante. What do you do with that?"

"So was he, like..." Clyde waggled his eyebrows. "Tall, dark, and handsome?"

"Uh, I guess?" Kyle would have to introduce Clyde and Kenny. "It was kind of hard to see in the dark."

"That your type?" Clyde continued to tease. "Cool, distant?"

"Th...uh, no, I...?" Kyle stammered over his answer, sure that his face was redder than his hair. Beside him, Tweek let out one of his usual squawks of distress, giving Kyle an excuse not to answer right away.

"All right, I think that's enough of that," Token said, adjusting his glasses and looking back down at his iPad. The bullpen returned to work. As Kyle had quickly learned, once Token decided the time for fooling around was over, the rest acquiesced. He'd be the first of them to the masthead for sure.

The rest of the afternoon was productive. Kyle reviewed a series of outsourced articles Mackey left in his inbox. When five o'clock rolled around, he headed out with Jimmy.

"Wait up, man," Clyde called after him. Just as the elevator reached their floor, Clyde handed Kyle a small stack of papers. "Your first article, in the press! Figured you'd want a few advance copies."

It was an apology for any awkwardness earlier, though Kyle also recognized from Clyde's goofy tone that he wasn't safe from future teasing. He chuckled. "Thanks, Clyde."

He and Jimmy parted ways at the door, and Kyle ran half a block to catch his bus home. When he got into the apartment, Kenny was standing in the kitchen area eating a microwave dinner, and, to Kyle's surprise, Stan was flopped out on the couch.

"You got out on time," he said. Stan groaned, letting his head fall back onto the couch's headrest.

"I just got back. When was the last time I was in this apartment before seven on a weekday?" He blew some air out of the side of his mouth. "What do you want for dinner?"

"The mac and cheese is pretty good," Kenny said, toasting his friends with the plastic container in his hand. He forked the last cluster of cheesy elbows into his mouth. "Gotta go to class," he said, though around the pasta it sounded more like 'godagocah.'

"Text me when you get there," Kyle said. Kenny slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and hip-checked Kyle on his way to the door.

"I always do, Mom. Hey, what's this?" The top copy of the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ in Kyle's hands flapped out of his vision and into Kenny's hands. "Did they print your personal ad? 'Wanted: Single Superhero, Underwear Model Preferred'?"

"Get  _out!_ " Kyle swatted Kenny's backside with the rest of the papers and sent him snorting with laughter out the door. When Kyle turned around again, Stan was grinning at him. Kyle rounded the coffee table to smack him in the face with his papers, too.

"Ack, Kyle,  _Jesus_ , are you trying to give me papercuts on my eyes?"

Stan microwaved frozen mac and cheese while Kyle made salad, muttering that he wished Kenny would eat more veggies until he felt Stan's stupid grin on him again. Just as they were sitting down to a couch dinner and streamed movie, Kyle's phone chimed.

_Safe n sound ky read ur art rly good_

Kenny ignored punctuation, spelling, and grammar like the plague when it came to texting. Kyle sighed and texted back,  _Good. Thank you._

_Nvr thot of Mysterion as hero b4_

Kenny was also the fastest texter Kyle had ever met.  _No? I mean, he's a vigilante, but he works with the cops, & he saved me._

 _U got it bad,_ Kenny replied, adding the winking emoji whose smile always seemed dirtier in a text from Kenny. Midway through Kyle's annoyed reply, a second text arrived.  _Always thot of him as symbol_

_Symbol?_

Kenny's class must have started then, because he didn't reply right away. Kyle and Stan finished their dinner and movie, then dissected what they liked about the movie (the action, the part with the dog) and what they didn't (the twist was so obvious, the soundtrack was seriously 2006 and not in a good way). It wasn't until Kyle was brushing his teeth before bed that he heard the chime of Kenny's reply.

_The symbol this city needs_


	6. Chapter 6

Though there was no trending hashtag in Denver, nor immediate coverage from other journalists looking to piggyback on breaking news, Kyle still felt the thrill of accomplishment when he picked up the office mail to distribute and found a number of letters addressed to himself. Readers young and old asked about Mysterion. One letter snipped that the article should've had a picture so citizens could better identify him, but admitted that the vigilante sounded like "an interesting character." Another, written in green crayon, asked if Kyle had seen Mysterion fly. The police clerk sent an appreciative postcard for the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter'_ s firm stance on leaving emergency or dangerous situations to those best prepared and trained to handle them. Kyle stacked his letters neatly in the top drawer of his desk, still being broken into.

"Maybe you can write a f-f-faah..." Jimmy started. He repeated himself twice. "...Follow-up piece. People really seemed to respond to your c-c-coverage."

"We don't get a lot of fan mail," Token added, not unkindly. "Of course, we don't expect you to try to get yourself mugged again."

"Yeah." Clyde winked at Kyle. "We've already read a story about Mysterion saving you from street thugs. Try something different this time around, hmm?"

"Maybe he could save you from a burning building," Craig said. He had his feet pulled up on his chair so that his knees were to his chin and held his camera in his hands, zooming in and out on Tweek's coffee cup-cluttered desk.

"Gah! Or he could catch you falling down the subway stairs. Oh, but you could really get hurt, and thatwouldbebad _ngh_!"

Token slipped off his glasses to clean them with a small cloth he took out of his pocket. "How about an article that doesn't put Kyle at risk at all?" 

"I already spoke with the police clerk again, actually," Kyle said. He fidgeted under the bullpen's attention. "Via e-mail. She confirmed that public response to the police's request to work with officials has been increasingly positive, and crime rates in that neighborhood have decreased. I wouldn't push for another article or anything, but I thought a footnote follow-up might be reasonable for this week's issue."

"Ab-b-solu...abso...absolutely."

Clyde tapped his pen against his chin a few times, then hooked the clip on the cap over his bottom lip so the pen dangled from his mouth. "It's too bad it's only September. If it were snowing, maybe Mysterion could shovel out your car."

Kyle expected Token to shush Clyde with his usual kindergarten teacher-esque tone, but instead he was nodding. "Now, that's a  _real_ hero, don't you think, Kyle?"

"I guess. I don't have a car."

"Ah." Embarassment fluttered across Token's face. "Well, Tweek, you drive. You'd love if someone saved you the work of clearing snow off your car, right?"

"Ngh...! Well, actually, Craig always does that." Tweek punctuated his sentence by chugging his fourth cup of coffee that Kyle had seen.

"Eh, you do the driving. I might as well help." Craig didn't even look up from his camera, nasally voice as monotonous as ever.

"Do you guys carpool?" Kyle asked.

"Welivetogether _gah!_ "

"Speaking of c-cars, have any of you t-t-tuh-tried Handicar?"

Kyle's desktop computer dinged with the office's instant messenger. Victoria asked him to come into her cubicle for a new assignment. While the bullpen continued discussing Denver transportation, he went to the editor.

Victoria opened with another apology for Kyle's first piece having danger attached to it. "I had no idea when I assigned you that story that it would be anything more than a little research and interviewing. Please don't think we're 'hazing the new guy,' or anything to that effect." Kyle assured her that he was fine. She'd reacted similarly when he first brought in his article, but Kyle was touched by the maternal worrying. Victoria handed him a paperclipped collection of flyers and a brochure for the Denver Farmers' Market Fall Floral Festival. "We cover it annually. It's a bit of an unofficial office outing, actually. A bunch of us go. You know, Denver is a big city, but it's still a hometown. We're a little paper. We like our local events."

When Kyle returned to the bullpen, conversation had shifted to the Broncos. All of them were fans, though, so little was up for debate regarding belief in a second consecutive Superbowl win that winter. They drifted back into quiet work for all of fifteen minutes.

"Ah, jeez, that flower show again?" Kyle looked up from his proofreading to see Clyde gesturing to the brochure on his desk.

"This is a pretty standard 'new guy' assignment," Token said. "Jimmy had it last fall, and Clyde covered the spring show when he joined up."

"Victoria made it sound like an office party."

"Yeah, it is. For old people." Clyde sighed. "Don't get me wrong, man, the flowers are pretty, but...with Mackey and Victoria there...it kind of feels like a lame field trip, you know?"

A quiet snicker swept through the bullpen. Even Craig cracked a smile. Then everyone was back to work. Tweek got up for another cup of coffee, so Kyle figured he and the Keurig were on good terms today. The elevator dinged, and the doors creaked as they opened to their floor. Two muted voices talked back and forth. Kyle stretched his arms up over his head. As the office assistant, he supposed it was his job to go greet visitors. Before he could get up from his seat, though, Tweek squeaked in alarm from the kitchen.

"Howdidyou _gah_ getinhere?"

"What?" one voice asked. "Sorry, dude, could you, uh, repeat that?"

Kyle's head snapped up from his work, and he met Jimmy's eye across their desks. That was Stan's voice, no mistaking it.

"Ayyy, you must be Tweek!" Kenny's voice followed. "Nice mug, man."

"Oh, Jesus, how do you knowmyname? _Ngh_! Whoareyou _gah_?"

Kyle jumped up and walked as quickly as he could to the front of the office. When he rounded the great wall of cubicle panels, he spotted his roommates just as he'd thought. Tweek was worrying the hem of his misbuttoned shirt, and Stan and Kenny observed him with disbelief and amusement respectively. They both looked up when Kyle arrived.

"Hey, dude, surprise!" 

"Want to have lunch with us?" Kenny added. "I ran into Leo at the drug store, and he said we should all hang out."

Tweek's wide eyes turned to Kyle. "You're friends with drug dealers? Oh, _Jesus_!"

"No, man, the drug store. Like, where you get cough syrup when you have a cold." Kenny reached out and patted Tweek's shoulder reassuringly. Kyle had seen Kenny's patented  _there, there_ pat in action dozens of times since their childhood, and had been on the receiving end of it just a week or so before when he nearly went into diabetic shock. Kyle wondered if it was something Kenny had picked up from the many social workers who'd toured the McCormicks' home. "And Leo is the least likely guy on the planet to get into drugs. He couldn't stir up chaos with the biggest spoon in the bakery."

"Oh." Tweek's shoulders slumped with relief. Or, at least, Kyle hoped it was relief. "Oh, my mistake...ngh..."

"Yeah, dude, Butters is harmless." Stan raised an eyebrow at Kyle over Tweek's head. "Sorry to startle you. We're friends of Kyle's, and he told us one of his coworkers was a coffee...connoisseur. We just assumed when we saw the mug." Kyle couldn't help his smile. The mug was a birthday gift from Clyde, who had delightedly announced so upon seeing it in Tweek's hands that morning, and read  _Decaf is for Wimps_. Tweek had said in complete seriousness that the mug was "totally right."

Clyde popped his head around the corner of the cubicle wall. "Hey, you guys having a party without us?"

Kyle brought Stan and Kenny back to the bullpen. Stan grinned and leaned over Kyle's desk to shake Jimmy's hand when he saw him.

"Jimmy, how you been?"

"Oh, you know, r-running marathons and s-skuh-sk...skuh...skydiving." Stan laughed, and Jimmy shrugged modestly. "You're always a good audience, St-Stuh-Stan."

"This is Stan," Kyle added for the rest of the bullpen's benefit. "He went to school with Jimmy and me. And this is Kenny. The three of us grew up together."

"But not apart," Kenny said, slinging his arm around Kyle's shoulder and using the same hand to smack Stan's shoulder affectionately. "It can be done."

Kyle went around the bullpen introducing his coworkers. Stan asked if anyone else wanted to have lunch with them outside, but they all politely declined. Clyde of course wanted to know if Stan and Kenny had any embarrassing stories about Kyle.

"Tons," they answered in unison. "But we have to live with him, so we can't share," Stan said. Kenny laughed and mussed Kyle's hair. "Hey, uh, before we go, you guys have a bathroom here?"

Kyle pointed Stan in the direction of the restroom. Once he'd left, Kenny rested his chin on top of Kyle's head and appraised the bullpen. "You guys all have your desks pushed together? That's cute. It's like sitting together at tables in school." Kyle squirmed under Kenny's weight until he straightened. The fact that Kenny, once the runt of the group while Kyle grew like a weed, now towered over him didn't really bother Kyle—unless Kenny cheekily reminded Kyle of his height advantage in situations like this.

Tweek tilted his head, looking up at them. A little smile toyed with the corner of his mouth. "Oh...Kyle, is this your boyfriend?"

Kyle shook his head as Kenny's weight fell heavier on top of him. Jeez, the guy looked as skinny as ever, why was he so heavy? "No, just friends, roommates. Thank you for that, though. Now Kenny knows how it looks when he does this. Which is all the time."

"Babe, why you gotta deny our love?" Kenny asked, wrapping his arms around Kyle's shoulders. Kyle rolled his eyes and jabbed his elbow right into Kenny's gut. For the split second Kyle connected, Kenny's midsection was firmer than he remembered, but Kenny buckled immediately with a pained " _Oof!_ " Clyde and Token both chuckled, though Tweek's expression had twisted into horror.

"Oh _Jesus_ KyleIdidn'tmean—"

"Tweek, it's fine." Kyle leaned his head to one side and Kenny slid off his shoulders. "There are worse things you could mistake me for than Kenny's boyfriend." The weight of Kenny's chin returned to the crown of Kyle's head, and he swore he could feel Kenny's slow smile.

"Babe."

"Stop."

"Okay, ready to go?" Stan asked, returning to the bullpen. "Sorry to rush you...my afternoon is swamped, so I can't stay too late for lunch."

"No problem." Kyle slipped his wallet into his pocket and put his jacket on. "Ready when you are."

"Nice to meet you guys," Kenny said, saluting the bullpen. As the three went to leave, he patted Tweek's shoulder. "Sorry again about earlier."

"Oh, don't worry about it. Ngh...! I really am sorry thatIassumedyouandKyle—"

"Don't be. That's the nicest thing anybody's said to me all day." Kenny flashed him a grin before following his friends to the elevator.


	7. Chapter 7

Clyde had been right that it wasn't seasonally appropriate for a story on shoveling, but Kyle couldn't agree with his sentiment that it was 'too bad.' It was an unusually warm day for fall in Denver. After a pit stop at a fast food joint for dollar menu burgers and fries, the trio enjoyed the sunshine and comfortable breeze on their way to the outdoor benches where they were meeting Butters. Stan shook his head over the bullpen ("I thought you were exaggerating," followed by "But they do seem kind of cool, I get it."). Kenny, already sneaking fries from his greasy bag, loped along behind the other two to make way for pedestrians walking in the opposite direction. 

"Oh, Stan, your table arrived. They didn't make me sign for it or anything," Kenny said once he'd polished off another mouthful of fries.

"Thanks, dude, I appreciate you bringing it in. Didn't want it out in the hallway all afternoon."

Kenny waved around a particularly long fry like a conductor's baton. "Hey, I'm home anyway. That's the beauty of the evening shift. I just dragged the box in and left it on the floor, though. You gotta build it yourself."

"That was the plan," Stan said dryly. Brightening he added, "It's going to be a huge help having a drawing table at the apartment, though. Maybe I'll be able to do some work from home."

"Where are you going to fit it?" Kyle asked. "I mean, between the furniture and all your tools everywhere, there's not a lot of space."

"Hey, it's part bedroom, part architect's office."

Kyle snorted. "Yeah, okay. It's a tool shed with a bed."

"You can move some stuff into my room if you need the space," Kenny said. Stan and Kyle exchanged a quick look, Stan worse at hiding his apprehension. "Dude, I don't care. I got a whole empty wall. Tool away."

"Don't give him an inch, Kenny, you'll be up to your eyeballs in screwdrivers." Kyle laughed.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence. I appreciate it, Kenny, but I might just have to clean my room...nobody tell my mom she was right all those years. Ah, hey, there's Butters!"

Sure enough, a mint green bundle of fluff was waving to them from the next block down. Kyle could faintly hear Butters' lilting "Hey, fellas!" Beside Butters was another person, a larger mass in a bright red jacket. Kyle leaned forward and squinted, then swore.

"Jeez, Kyle, I haven't heard you swear like that since..." Kenny paused. "Is that Cartman?"

"It's Cartman," Stan confirmed, the excitement in his voice flatlining. "Kyle, don't get mad."

"Too late," Kyle said through gritted teeth.

For as long as Kyle and Stan had lived in Denver, they had walked a precarious social tightrope. High school friends didn't necessarily graduate to college friends. They knew they'd see little of Kevin Stoley or Annie Knitts after they left South Park, just like they knew they'd never let distance come between them and Kenny. Wendy's best friend Bebe was a keeper. Cartman, Kyle insisted, was out, and Stan agreed readily. Unfortunately, they both liked Butters. He wasn't their best friend, but he was a good friend and a welcome tagalong. The problem was, Butters hadn't cut off Cartman and couldn't grasp the concept of eighty-sixing a childhood pal. Asking Butters to choose between friends was like kicking a puppy, so Stan and Kyle pulled some Olympic-level social gymnastics to coordinate hanging out with Butters without his inviting his "buddy Eric" along.

It was inevitable that Cartman would find a loophole and they'd have to deal with him at some point. That didn't mean Kyle wasn't grinding his teeth the entire final block of their walk, all lighthearted laughter gone. Kenny nudged him between the shoulder blades just before they reached their destination, and Kyle straightened at the touch, training his expression to neutrality as best he could.

"Well, hey, guys!" Butters said, bubbly as ever. "Gee, it's been so long!"

"Too long, dude," Stan said, clapping a hand to Butters' shoulder in greeting. Butters beamed. "How you been since graduation?"

"Oh, pretty good. Eric and I are splitting an apartment with a couple other fellas who just graduated, too. City living sure is tough!" There it was: the integration of Cartman into the conversation. Kyle glanced over at Stan hoping to make eye contact, but their lifelong best friend telepathy must've tipped off Stan, and he looked straight ahead instead.

"Hey, Cartman," Stan said stiffly. 

"Stan," Cartman drawled. "I see Wendy Testaburger hasn't drained you of your life force yet. I'm impressed." He'd been in the city for four years just like they had, and his unexplained accent still twanged a brown note in Kyle's soul. "Kenny, you look less poor than the last time I saw you. Rustle up a newer model of blinding orange at the thrift shop?"

He hated how Cartman's "Kenny" rhymed with "tinny," making it sound small and cheap. He hated that Cartman hadn't seen Kenny in four years and still opened with poor jokes. He hated that Kenny had grown up enough to let those comments roll off his back, shrugging good-naturedly in Kyle's peripheral vision.

"Kyle."

And there it was, the brownest note of all:  _Kahl_. That one-syllable stain of a mispronunciation, so much more exaggerated than any other word that it had to be at least partially intentional. Kyle's expression must have twisted again, because he felt the toe of Kenny's boot gently tap the heel of his own.

"Cartman," he replied. In the back of his mind, he was proud of how composed he sounded.

"Come sit," Butters said a little too quickly. He gestured to the public picnic tables set up along the path through the park. "We've got loads to catch up on. Like you being a published writer, Kyle, gee whiz!"

"Published writer?" Cartman echoed hollowly, and Kyle reveled in the note of self-doubt he heard loud and clear. They set up their lunches around the round table. When Kenny pulled out his fry container from his bag, it was already half empty.

"Well, yeah, Eric! Kyle works for a newspaper. He wrote all about a superhero right here in Denver!"

Cartman perked up at that, a glint in his eyes. "Oh, really? So you've heard about Denver's crime-fighting vigilante, too, eh, Kyle?"

Kenny looked up from his burger. "You've heard of Mysterion?"

Cartman's brow furrowed down, lips puckering, and he pulled his chin in towards his thick neck like a tortoise retreating into its shell. "Mystery-what?"

"Mysterion!" Butters repeated. "He's a super-cool superhero who wears fancy underpants and saved Kyle's life from two hulking crooks!"

"Is...is that how I made it sound?" Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. He'd thought his article was good journalism, just the facts, but he supposed he did cast Mysterion in a pretty heroic light. Beside him, Kenny exhaled through his nose what sounded suspiciously like a laugh.

" _What_." It came out completely flat, but Cartman's round face was getting redder by the second, his mouth snarled into a grimace. "What do you mean, there's  _another_ vigilante running around Denver? Figures you'd be writing about the competition, Kyle. You can't just root for the real hero, you gotta get behind some copycat!"

"Another vigilante?" Stan looked over at Kyle. "There are more?"

"I-I don't know," Kyle said. "I only know of the one."

"I haven't heard about other vigilantes, either," Kenny said, the twinkle gone from his eye. Cartman pounded both fists on the picnic table, and Butters yelped with surprise.

"You guys can't be seriously! None of you have heard of the Coon?"

The other four exchanged looks. Cartman's nostrils flared with indignation.

"The what, now?" Stan finally asked.

"The  _Coon_ , Stan. God, read the news." Cartman settled back into his seat still fuming. "He's this super-cool—no, super- _awesome_ new hero. He's here to clean up the scum in Denver, make it a city we can be proud of again. I can't be _lieve_ you guys don't know about the Coon."

"Well, I haven't heard anything about him, so he can't be that great," Kyle said loftily. He didn't mention that he hadn't heard of Mysterion either before receiving his assignment. "Besides, Mysterion is..." He grasped for the right word and, with a sideways glance at Kenny, finished, "...like a symbol. Of justice. He's not helping people for the rewards or the recognition."

"Well, then, by all means, pile them onto him," Cartman sniped, leaning over the table.

"He didn't have any reason to help me," Kyle fired back, pushing himself up to meet the challenge in Cartman's posture. "He just did it because I needed help. He wouldn't take a reward from anybody he helped. He just did what was right."

They were both standing now, fists to the table, glaring daggers at one another. "Well, shit, Kyle, if you love Captain Underpants so much, why don't you marry him? Or does doing good deeds without reward not save enough pennies to make your rainy day?"

"Okay, I think that's enough of that," Kenny said quietly. Kyle felt Kenny's hand rest against his back and cursed his body's Pavlovian response of relaxing immediately. Kenny stood beside him and eased Kyle back to his seat. Though his voice was light, Kenny's smile didn't meet his eyes, dark blue, the color of the calm before the storm. When Kenny turned his gaze to Kyle's opponent, Cartman sat down again as if in a trance. Butters wrung his hands.

"Oh, gosh, oh, gee, fellas!"

Kenny's hand had traveled from Kyle's back to his shoulder and now drifted off entirely, and when he spoke again, any underlying threat in his tone was gone. "Kyle was just telling us that his next assignment is coverage of an indie flower expo this weekend."

"Oh! Oh, that sounds so nice. Pretty flowers and all." Butters sighed into a smile. "It'll probably be the last chance to see pretty flowers before the snow starts up, huh?"

"Yeah," Kenny agreed. "I wish I could go, but I have work, and Stanny-boy's abandoning us for Patriots Nation."

Alarm flashed across Butters' face before Stan clarified, "I'm going to visit Wendy at school. Like you said, the closer we get to the end of the year, the higher the risk of snow. I fly out Thursday."

"Well, that'll be a nice weekend, Stan! Gosh, you and Wendy have been going together...how long?"

"Since, what, third grade?" Kyle teased. 

"Dang, Marsh, you've been stringing her along for fourteen years?" Cartman folded his hands on top of the table. "Who knew you had it in you?"

Discomfort crossed Stan's face, and he looked back down at the last few bites of his lunch. Kyle smiled to himself. Stan had worked his butt off all through college, partly out of passion for his degree and partly out of panic that Wendy would meet someone smarter and more successful as an ivy league undergrad. He was hired to a high-profile architectural company before he'd even walked at graduation and was pulling in an unheard-of salary for entry-level. By the time Wendy finished up her master's program, Kyle knew Stan would have a nice little nest egg. Just before Kenny and Karen moved up from South Park, Stan had finally admitted to Kyle that he'd been looking at rings online.

"Well," Kyle said, stretching, "I've never been to the expo, so I'm hoping it'll be fun. The guys in my office warned me it's kind of lame, though."

"Ah, you'll have a good time," Kenny said. "Even if I'm not there." Kyle rolled his eyes, and Kenny turned to Butters on his other side. "Hey, if you're not up to anything, you should tag along, too...Leo." His voice didn't rise, and there was no venom in his words, but Kenny's eyes cut right to Cartman when he clarified to whom that invitation extended.

Kyle blinked, and Kenny's goofy grin was back on Butters, who was delighted firstly to have one friend who called him by name and secondly to be included in an outing. One look at Cartman's splotchy face told him he hadn't imagined it. Kyle folded his hands and squeezed his own fingers together to suppress a shiver. For that one second, in absolutely perfect control, Kenny had given Cartman a glimpse of anger.

Though he wouldn't be gone for good, Kyle suspected Cartman wouldn't invite himself the next time they met Butters for lunch. 


	8. Chapter 8

While Kyle and Kenny were off to work, Stan was wearing worn jeans and a Broncos hoodie, an overstuffed duffel bag over one shoulder. Kenny brightly reminded him to text when he got to the airport, when he got to Boston, and when he got to Wendy's place. Kyle's first instinct was to shoot Kenny a look, but then he grudgingly agreed that he wanted word when Stan arrived safely.

It was an uneventful Thursday, and Kyle got a text around four from Kenny that he was on his way to Karen's dorm to pick her up. Kenny was adamant about Karen having the college experience of living on campus but that she had to take a break to visit her "poor old brother" every once in a while, a promise she had no problem keeping. Kyle left a few minutes early to pick up a few things for dinner. By the time he got back to the apartment, the McCormick siblings were already sprawled out on their couch, shoes kicked aside, deep in discussion about Karen's first month of classes.

"Kyle!" Karen threw both arms up in the air when she waved to him from the couch. He set his groceries down on the counter and waved back. "How ya been?" 

After exchanging greetings, Kyle got to work starting dinner, listening from the kitchen area while Karen bubbled on about her classes. He put on a pot of water to boil, got out a bowl and tossed red pepper, squash, and zucchini with olive oil and a little salt, then put it on a baking sheet to roast. Kenny came over to the kitchen briefly to ask if he could help, and Kyle swatted him away. The offer was genuine, and if he'd said to chop veggies or put on a pot of water to boil, Kyle knew Kenny would do it, but he wasn't about to divide Kenny's attention when it had a more important place to be. Kenny loped back over to the couch, but not before giving Kyle's apron tie a tug.

Every once in a while, Kyle would look over to see Karen gesturing wildly along with her stories, putting on voices and making faces for every new character who arrived, while Kenny hung on her every word. Kyle had to turn away to hide his smile, pouring ziti into the pot of boiling water and putting on a saucepan for marinara sauce. He hoped his own older brother pride showed as clearly when he spent time with Ike.

"For my intro course, we have short papers for the midterm and final," Karen said, "but our major project is right after the midterm period, where we coordinate with a costume construction class from the drama department and an event planning class from the communications department to put on a fashion show for charity. The communications kids organize the show, book the space, do the advertising, whatever, and the costuming students help our class construct designs. We have to do three each, formal wear." Karen ran both hands through her hair and flicked her wrists, flipping it over both shoulders with a flourish. Though her hair was a darker blonde than Kenny's, it had the same tendency to flip out in all directions, and she shared her brother's habit of playing with her hair when she was excited, giving it even more of a mad scientist look. "My roommate Ruby's going to be my model. She's, like, ideal. She's gotta be a foot taller than I am, and she's three-quarters legs.  _Perfect_ for fancy dresses."

"That makes it easier on you, too, having her right in your dorm room," Kyle said. He drained the pot of ziti, then mixed in the marinara sauce and roasted vegetables. Once it was fairly even, he added ricotta, mozzarella, and Parmesan, stirred again, and tipped the pot's contents into a baking dish. "You can measure her and try out different patterns whenever." 

"It's thirty-five percent of our grade, so I'm busting my butt," Karen said, pulling her hair up into a ponytail, clawing at loose strands, then letting it fall back to her shoulders instead of putting in a hair tie. "But I feel pretty good about it."

"You should," Kenny said with a grin. "You're the best in the class, right?"

"Oh, I don't know, everybody's pretty good. We're all in the intro class, after all."

They had the same eyes, Kyle thought, recognizing the same twinkle Kenny always got when he was feeling cocky. He snorted to himself, putting the ziti in to bake. "Okay, T minus thirty minutes." He set the timer, and Kenny inhaled deeply through his nose.

"Kyle, that smells so  _good_ ," he said with an appreciative sigh. Kyle laughed, moving all the pots and utensils he'd used into the sink and untying his apron. Only a few sauce splatters adorned it, but better the apron than his work slacks. He flopped into the chair across from the couch where the McCormicks were camped out.

"So, you'll be sewing up a storm the next few weeks, then," Kyle said to Karen. She nodded, following her brother's lead and taking a whiff of the baking ziti. "Good thing you've got those costuming folks helping you out. Three fancy dresses is a lot, right?"

Karen chuckled at what Kyle was sure was his bemused expression. "Yeah, it's a lot of work, because I'm thinking bling. We can use fabric and materials from the costuming department, which is cool, but I might order a few extras online if I need to." She paused, then, keeping her eyes laser-focused away from her brother, lightly added, "I was thinking about getting a part-time job on campus."

Kyle would swear Kenny's ears pricked up like a dog's. "Karen, you don't have to worry about that. If you need fabric or anything, we've got money. Just focus on your classes, or clubs, or hanging out with your new friends."

"I don't mind pitching in." Karen's eyes flickered back and forth between Kenny, defiantly, and Kyle, embarrassed. The McCormick siblings had dinner at the Broflovski house so frequently growing up that Kyle often felt like a third older brother to her, but he knew this conversation wasn't his business and got up under the guise of checking on dinner. He tried to focus on the warm aroma that greeted him when he opened up the oven to peek inside instead of the McCormicks' quiet bickering.

"I'm your big brother, I'm supposed to look out for you," he heard Kenny hiss in the midst of it.

"And you  _do_ , Kenny, but you don't have do everything for me. I can take care of myself sometimes, you know," she hissed back.

When he could awkwardly hover in the kitchen no longer, Kyle closed up the oven, grabbed some water, and asked if anyone else wanted anything. By the time he dropped back into the chair across from the couch, the McCormicks had apparently reached a standoff, or perhaps had agreed to continue this discussion later. Neither looked particularly happy, in any case.

"So what have you been up to, Kyle?" Karen asked finally, the first few words stiff, but the latter part of the sentence back to her usual chipper tone. 

Before Kyle could reply, Kenny lit up with a wicked grin. "Well, have you been following the papers, Karen? Kyle met a masked vigilante face-to-face."

"Oh?" Karen's smile matched her brother's, and she sat up a little straighter. "Do tell!"

Kyle recounted the story for her, editing a few moments to tone down the danger while still emphasizing how important it was to be aware of one's surroundings, especially at night. The unspoken  _duh_ in Karen's face spoke volumes even if she didn't say it aloud, and Kyle felt a little silly for his improvised big brother protectiveness.

"Kenny makes me carry pepper spray," she said. "I'm surprised he doesn't have you doing it, too."

"It's not a bad idea," Kenny said, expression warier than his voice. He and Karen exchanged a quick look, and Kyle was sure he was witnessing sibling telepathy, because Kenny's guarded expression deepened with Karen's wry smile.

"So, what did this guy look like?" she asked. "Tell me about his costume."

Kyle described it for her, trying to skirt past one obvious detail. Not that Kenny was going to let that happen.

"Tell her about your favorite part of the costume, Kyle," he said sweetly.

"What, the mask?" Kyle lied through his teeth, eyes darting to the timer on the oven.

" _Noooo_ , not the _maaaask._ You  _knoooow_..." 

The timer on the ziti saved Kyle from answering, but by the time he'd taken dinner out of the oven and set the steaming pan on a hot plate on the counter, he knew he was done for. When he looked up to announce dinner, the McCormicks were both grinning at him from the couch.

"Why, Kyle Broflovski," Karen giggled. Kyle waved his serving spoon in the siblings' directions.

"One word about Mysterion's underwear, or why I looked, or how long I looked, and you two will be eating McDonald's while I enjoy this delicious baked ziti by myself."

Karen's eyebrows flew to her hairline. "Uh, Kenny just said you were into the cape. Like, you know, a superhero fantasy. Gosh, Kyle."

Kenny howled with laughter even when Kyle chucked the serving spoon at him.


	9. Chapter 9

Clyde made himself yawn to emphasize a point, but it soon morphed into a real yawn, his mouth aching a little, tears of tiredness pricking the corners of his eyes. Beside him, Token didn't even look up from the book he was reading on his iPad. Clyde leaned his butt against the back of the bench Jimmy was sitting on.

"It's so early," he said for the umpteenth time.

"You could get a coffee," Token suggested.

"Or I could go home and go back to bed."

"Come on, C-Cuh-Clyde. We all showed up when you had t-t-to cover a f-fuh-faah...fuh...f-flower show. We're here for K-Kyle."

"Who is, notably,  _absent_." Clyde fake-yawned again, and Token elbowed him. "See, I told him we were the shit-together half. Where the eff is everybody?"

"We're right here," Craig said flatly from behind Clyde. Clyde yelped in alarm but was pleased to see that Token's blase composure had finally been rattled, as he nearly dropped his iPad in surprise.

"Stop  _doing_ that!" Clyde didn't think he'd yelled, exactly, but it came out louder than he meant. People passing by glanced over.

"Gah!" 

Even if the venti Harbucks cup in Tweek's hand hadn't given them away, Clyde figured the two of them stopped for coffee. They were often late to get-togethers, and sometimes even work, but never without coffee. Tweek would be late to the boarding time for Noah's ark if it meant getting his caffeine fix.

Craig had a smaller cup in his hand, the string of a teabag slipping out from under the lid and dangling over his fingers. In all the years Clyde had known Craig, he'd expressed indifference more so than dislike for things he wasn't all about (a short list: his pet guinea pig, outer space, pictures of things Clyde didn't quite see when he looked at them, and some eighties anime about race car drivers; sometimes, Clyde thought, he might have made the cut, too). Coffee was one of few things Craig openly disliked, saying more than once during study cram sessions and paper-writing all-nighters that the caffeine hurt his head and the taste made him want to gag. Tweek lived off the stuff. Clyde wondered what Craig did when they made out.

No, actually, Clyde didn't wonder about that. Not in detail. Not, like, weirdly thinking about his best bro's make-out sessions. Like, he wondered in the sense that Tweek and Craig had been Tweek and Craig for, what, a year? Maybe? It was hard to tell because they never kissed or touched or called each other cutesy nicknames, and if Clyde hadn't seen them change their relationship status on social media, he would have absolutely no idea they were even together. So he wondered about if there was ever any hanky panky that he simply wasn't witness to, and then he suffered severe embarrassment over wondering what his friends did in their apartment when no one else was around, and then he reminded himself it was none of his business but also he was super curious but also it was none of his business.

Clyde was just taking note of the fact that, as always, Tweek and Craig didn't even stand closer to each other than they did everyone else when Kyle showed up with another friend in tow.

"There you are!" Clyde said grumpily. "It's about time you showed."

"Sorry, had to wait for the bus." Kyle flashed an apologetic smile. The blond beside him bounced on the balls of his feet. "Oh, this is my friend, Butters." He went around introducing his coworkers.

"Well, hey! Nice to meet'cha. Kyle's been telling me how much he likes all you fellas."

"And the job," Kyle added hastily, eyes darting away. Butters' unwavering smile suggested he didn't notice Kyle's embarrassment, but Clyde was more than willing to take advantage.

"Aww, what did Kyle tell you about us? How awesome and cool and talented we are?"

The question threw Butters off. "Well, sort of, I s'pose."

At the same time, monotonous behind him, Craig echoed, "'We'?" Tweek made a strangled sound into his coffee cup that Clyde thought might be a laugh. It said a lot about what an un-fun couple they were to be friends with that Clyde's first thought was how cute it was that Tweek seizure-laughed at Craig's humorless jokes.

"Don't feel bad, Craig," Clyde said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "We can't all be brilliant studmuffins."

They wandered around the park where the public expo had been set up. Aisles of stands and displays snaked over the grass. It was free to tour the stands, just like at the regular farmer's market, but since everything on display was also for sale, people were still spending money. Twice someone in their group caught sight of the older half of the office—Mackey comparing two miniature cacti, and P.C. ranting at a frightened teenager in an orange volunteer tee shirt—and warned the others so they could steer clear. It was a beautiful day, the sun shining without beating down on them, the breeze comfortable. Butters chattered animatedly, fitting right into the group, and  _ooh_ ed and  _ahh_ ed over just about every flower stand they passed. Craig took pictures of empty space in the opposite direction of the crowds and stands, as well as one of a truly hideous cactus, bulbous and misshapen, that even Butters didn't compliment. Kyle scribbled notes feverishly on a tiny memo pad, the flip of its pages becoming white noise with its frequency.

"How come you don't use a tablet or your phone?" Token asked when Kyle, inevitably, gave himself a papercut doing his homework.

Kyle slipped his bleeding thumb into his mouth. "I remember things better when I physically write them. It's like, the memory of moving my hand and spelling things out sticks better than tapping a screen. I use the computer for all my drafts, though. Way easier for a lot of word processing."

The crowds bustled along, clustering at different displays, and the energy was palpable. People walked around with armfuls of bouquets or potted plants cupped in their hands. Some vendors, by the time the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ group reached them, were grinning over their nearly-empty stock. 

"You guys want to break for lunch?" Kyle asked all of a sudden, looking down at his phone. Clyde checked his as well and was surprised to see that it was already quarter of noon.

"I mean, I don't really want to come back," he said. "No act two of the expo for me. I say we finish our tour and get lunch as a reward for sticking it out." 

"Sounds good," Token agreed. "They're supposed to have some contests at twelve-thirty, biggest gourd by pound and stuff. We can stick around for the prizes and eat after that. With the crowds getting out, probably one or two."

Having eaten breakfast around eight that morning, one or two sounded a little late to be getting lunch to Clyde, but he shrugged. "Okay."

"No, you guys don't have to stick around for that," Kyle said, still fixated on his phone. "I can do the contests by myself. No need to hang around all day for my benefit. Why don't we start making our way to the exit now?"

"Everything okay, dude?" Clyde asked.

Kyle looked up, and though there was a thread of discomfort in his expression, his voice was normal when he said, "Yeah, of course. Just don't want to write hangry." Butters laughed at that.

"You should probably buy a plant before the stuff gets too picked-over," Craig said from the back of the group. "To show your support." Clyde rolled his eyes at the hypocrisy; Craig never showed support for anything. It sucked when Clyde was looking for a wingman on a Friday night, though it was kind of great when petitioners with clipboards tried to stop them outside the movies downtown. Clyde had once seen Craig put his hand up and say  _No_ with the most unenthusiastic intensity known to man, and Clyde swore a sidewalk full of signature-seekers parted like the Red Sea.

"Hmm..." Kyle sighed. "I probably should." 

Clyde didn't expect the resignation in his tone and glanced at Kyle over his shoulder. Boy, he really wanted to get out and eat lunch. Either he was super hungry, though where the skinny little guy put it Clyde couldn't say, or else he was so bored to tears with this assignment he needed a burger to decompress. Clyde respected that. Kyle fidgeted with his ushanka, pushing loose red curls back up under its flaps.

"Stuff like this makes me feel kind of guilty," Kyle admitted. "Indie bookstores, indie music stores, farmer's markets. I think they're awesome, don't get me wrong, but I feel way less pressure going into a chain. Like, the place won't close if I go in and browse without buying." He ducked his head. "I know, that's a jerky thing to say."

"No, you're totallyright _ack_!" Tweek squawked from the back. Two surprises back-to-back for Clyde. "My family owns an indie coffee shop, and all my dad ever talks about is howHarbucksisasoullesscorporation... _gah_! B-But they make good coffee. And the baristas are nice." Clyde imagined the regular employees recognizing Tweek when he came in and taking pity on him. Then he imagined trying to pick on a guy who had a stone-faced giant in a blue hat looming over him all the time. "Avoiding chain stores to go to an indie where I might not even,  _ngh_ , like the blend, but then they recognize you becauseindiesliketoknowtheircustomers _gah! Ack!_ What if I'm walking by that shop again, and they're looking for me to buy a cup, but I don't want to? Or if I already have a Harbucks coffee cup and they see it? That is  _way_ too much pressure!"

Craig mumbled something Clyde couldn't quite hear to Tweek, who had started pulling harder on the locks of hair he often twisted up in his fingers when he got nervous. Kyle hadn't turned back to look at Tweek's bugged-out eyes. 

"Thanks, Tweek. I'm glad somebody else gets it." He wiped his forehead with his hand, almost gingerly. This late into the day, Clyde supposed it was starting to get hotter out. He wondered why Kyle didn't take off his winter hat.

Butters was the one to pick out a stand to shop at, enamored with sunflowers so big Clyde almost called them "mutant." Almost. Butters was so excited about them he didn't have the heart. All of Kyle's friends seemed really nice. Clyde was glad Kyle said good things about their office group, too. 

Clyde looked over again. Kyle was studying desk-size flowerpots of amaranth and petunias. He wiped his forehead again and took a short breath. Was it that hot out? Clyde frowned. Something was wrong. Kyle looked really pale. Usually his skin was more olive-toned, not as dark as Craig's natural bronze, but darker than Tweek's freckly fairness. Right now, he could give Tweek a run for his money, though. Was he getting sick?

"Hey, Kyle—"

Clyde registered the sight of sparks before the crackling sound computed, and his voice died in his throat at the distinct  _whoosh_ of fabric catching fire, the blaze that rose up from one of the stands, and the whine of a firecracker sailing into the sky.

It happened in the blink of an eye. One second, there was a small ember trailing along the canopy over one of the stands. The next, a row of flower and herb displays were going up in flame.

The excited chatter turned to screaming, the polite bustle of crowds to a throng of panic. Someone pushed into Butters, who fell into Kyle, who fell into Clyde. It wasn't until he tumbled into Craig that the domino effect ceased. Clyde tried to straighten, but Kyle was heavy against him.

"Sorry..." Kyle almost slurred the apology as he stood. What the  _hell_.

"People of Denver, fear not!" a voice boomed suddenly. Clyde jumped at the sound. It was deep, raspy even, like a bad superhero impression, and had kind of a hick accent. There was also a distortion in it, and Clyde realized belatedly that the reason the voice was able to overcome the crowd's panic was a microphone. "Your hero has arrived to save the day!"

At the end of that row of stands, a figure climbed up onto a display table, red cape billowing behind him. He stood to his full height, body bulging under black spandex, mouth slightly open and huffing under a half-mask that looked like a rat's face, and lifted his arms over his head. Silver claws gleamed on his fingers.

" _The Coon_!" the figure bellowed.


	10. Chapter 10

The Coon had a fire extinguisher, which seemed to Clyde too clunky and too convenient a trinket to just happen to have on him. Was this some kind of performance art? An exhibition gone wrong? The crowds were too panicked for it to have been planned. At least, by the expo committee.

A publicity stunt by some nut. Of course. At least Kyle would have something interesting to write about.

Kyle. Clyde looked over again, and he'd finally taken off his winter hat and stuffed it into his pocket. His jaw was clenched, but he didn't look as sickly as he had a few moments earlier. There was even a spark of condescension in his brown eyes before he turned his back on The Coon and started dragging Butters towards the exit. Clyde stuck with them.

A ways ahead of them, Token was waving his arms to flag them down amidst the crowd. There was no need. Craig towered over him and was giving Jimmy a piggy-back out, making him an even easier beacon to spot. When people shifted, Clyde could catch sight of Tweek carrying Jimmy's crutches beside Craig. Clyde waved back and pointed to the exit, and Token flashed him an 'OK' sign. They exchanged their signals just in time; the aisle they were stuffed into met an intersection with another, and crowds of people funneled in from either side, widening the gap between the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ crew.

Clyde hazarded a glance over his shoulder to see The Coon putting out a fraction of the fires he'd likely started. The extinguisher he'd produced was the same size as one that might be found in an apartment kitchen, nowhere near enough to stop the inferno speeding through the plantlife. In a few minutes, Clyde was sure, they would be in a tunnel of fire.

Worse, Kyle and Butters had switched positions, with Butters, wide-eyed, charging right behind Clyde and nearly pulling Kyle's arm out of its socket dragging his friend behind him. Kyle was shaking. No wonder, Clyde thought, looking down at his own trembling hands. The more people poured into their aisle headed for the exit, the more stopped up they were getting escaping. If the fire kept up like this, they could get blocked altogether. 

The Coon started swearing up a blue streak, his obscenities magnified by whatever microphone he was wearing. Clyde caught his yelps of pain interspersed and figured it was Fire 1, Coon 0 back there.

The exit was in sight, at least. Clyde saw Craig and Jimmy burst through the trellis archway they'd come through just a few hours earlier. He groped behind himself without turning and found Butters' hand, not wanting their crew to get separated any further. If Kyle needed to puke, he only had to hold it in for another thirty feet.

They hit the last intersection before the exit just as a flood of people burst in from either side.

If they'd been jostled and squeezed together before, this collision sent the people in the main aisle sprawling. Clyde lost his footing, tumbled down into the dirt, and quickly rolled himself over and up, yanking Butters to his feet with him. If they hadn't been so close to the back, they might have been trampled. Clyde kept running for the exit, but jerked back suddenly at Butters' insistent pull.

"Kyle!" was all Butters could get out when Clyde turned. A halo of smoke and flame lit him up from behind as the fire rumbled down the main aisle. Butters' lower lip trembled, and Clyde pushed him ahead.

"Go out the exit, find Craig and the others," Clyde said. "Craig's the giant, you can't miss him. I'll get Kyle!"

Butters nodded with a sob Clyde still heard over the screams of other patrons exiting, and once he was off, Clyde turned back the way they'd come. Kyle's hair would give away his position; Clyde looked around at the sea of people tumbling towards him, ducking down to scour the ground. Kyle couldn't have fallen far behind.

The fire burned higher, The Coon swearing and swearing. Clyde spied him howling amidst the flames further down the aisle, the very silhouette of the devil in his den.

"Kyle?" Clyde yelled. The crowd pushed him back, and he elbowed his way against the current. "Kyle!"

"Clyde?" Kyle called back. Clyde craned his neck trying to see him and caught a flash of dark red against the flames. Kyle's face was scraped with dirt and what looked like blood, and even though it wasn't that bad, Clyde's stomach lurched. He swallowed down his gag reflex and waved both arms in the air. Kyle waved back.

Behind Kyle was a stand that had also used a trellis as part of its presentation. In a flash, the fire climbed it, sparking and spitting tongues. Clyde opened his mouth to warn Kyle when Kyle's expression twisted and he buckled, disappearing into the crowd again. The trellis flared, every petal and vine falling off it consumed in flames, and the weight of the greenery pulled the trellis straight down into the crowd. A bunch of people screamed.

"Kyle! Kyle!" Clyde practically shoved the last of the escapees out of his way. His stomach leapt into his throat, and for a split hallucinatory second, he imagined himself and Kyle puking together at the exit if they survived this.

The trellis blazed on the ground, catching on the grass but spreading slowly against the dirt. Kyle was not pinned to the ground beneath it. Kyle was nowhere near it.

A few feet away from the trellis, Kyle was curled up in a ball, shaking like a leaf, the lone leaf to escape the fire. Crouched over him, one gloved hand propping himself up, the other circled protectively around Kyle's head, was a shadowy form, stark against the fire. His purple cloak billowed around him to the ground as if he'd just jumped into this position—he'd pushed Kyle out of the way, that had to be it **—** but not before Clyde spotted green markings on his chest.

"Holy shit, he's real," Clyde whispered.

Mysterion leaned closer to Kyle, but Clyde was too far away to hear. He ran towards them.

"Kyle!" he called again, voice cracking. It wasn't until he heard that crack that Clyde realized tears had already found their way to his face. Mysterion's grim expression blurred before him.

"Here," Mysterion said. Clyde made to crouch beside him, but in one swift movement, Mysterion scooped Kyle up to a standing position and hefted him over to Clyde. Clyde grabbed Kyle's arm and pulled it over his shoulder. Kyle's weight fell on him heavily.

"Dude, what's wrong with you?" Clyde asked, voice cracking all over the place. Not cool at all.

"Dia..." Kyle slurred, shuddering against him so badly that Clyde shook, too. "Diab...buh..."

"Diabetes. Diabetic attack," Mysterion said, his voice gravelly. Clyde looked up at him, but between his tears and the irritation in his eyes of fire in the air, there was no getting a good look at the guy's face. The mask didn't help, either. "Listen, give him a little candy, juice, or a cup of soda, not diet, if you have it. Okay? Just a cup. If you can't get him any sugar in the next ten minutes, you need to take him to the emergency room. Do you understand?"

"Y-Yes." It came out as a sob. Mysterion hesitated.

"It's okay," he said, his voice softer, but still with that chain smoker's rasp. "The fire department is on the way, and I'm going to take care of this. Just make sure he's okay. You can do this."

Clyde nodded. Kyle shuddered again, violently, and Clyde braced his arm around Kyle's waist. "Don't worry, dude, I gotcha!" Clyde said, his voice an octave or more higher, but at least without the cracks this time. Kyle winced and shook his head.

"Where's Kenny?" he asked.

Mysterion jerked back as if he'd been slapped. "Get him out of here," he snapped, and Clyde didn't hesitate to follow orders.

He half-carried Kyle the final stretch of the aisle, officially the last attendees to escape. Clyde was not good in a crisis. He'd been a crybaby all his life, according to grade-school bullies. He froze up, he asked too many questions before acting, and he ran away from a fight at the first opportunity. But with Kyle leaning against him asking over and over again for Kenny, words increasingly mushed together and unintelligible, Clyde knew this wasn't the time to be a wimp. With a strength he didn't know he had, he ducked down, threw Kyle's dead weight up and over his shoulder, and bolted through the trellis, thanking every god he could think of that Craig was a giant and he could spot his blue chullo hat from across the street. Sirens wailed closer and closer.

The entire  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ group was in a panic by the time Clyde reached them. Tweek and Butters were in hysterics, Jimmy and Token rushing to Clyde's side. Token eased Kyle off his shoulder and started asking him questions like what his name was and who the president was.

"Diabetes!" Clyde yelled, wiping his face with his sleeves. They came back smeared with dirt, sweat, and tears. "He needs sugar! A little candy, or a cup of soda. Not diet!"

Clyde was absolutely terrible in a crisis. Luckily, if anyone in this world could decipher his shrill, rushed words, it was Craig. Craig, who was excellent in a crisis and was the only member of their team not sweating bullets right now. Craig, whose expression betrayed worry, but whose hands didn't shake, dug into the pocket of his oversized hoodie and pulled out a half-full bottle of Sprite.

The relief that swept over Clyde was so strong he burst into tears.


	11. Chapter 11

Token practically had to hold Kyle down so Craig could tip the bottle of soda into his mouth. Kyle still sputtered and choked, spitting half of it back up. Clyde was next to useless, whimpering behind Token, but Token wasn't about to give him a hard time. Running back into the fire to get Kyle was a beyond cool thing to do, and gutsy as hell. Getting him out of there when he was sick and shaking like this was more than enough.

Butters knelt down on Kyle's other side and patted his back encouragingly, but the poor guy's face was white as a sheet. Token wondered if even he, Kyle's childhood friend, hadn't known about his diabetes.

Craig didn't react to having soda spat all over him. He bunched up the cuff of his sweatshirt over his palm and wiped Kyle's chin with it, then tried again, tipping the soda bottle more slowly.

"Not too much," Clyde stuttered behind them. "Just a cup."

"Roger," Craig said. He grabbed Kyle's chin with his other hand to hold him steady. "Take your time, man. Just a little."

Token wouldn't call it a soothing voice, but he relaxed nevertheless. At least one of them wasn't a mess. Token kept his composure as best he could, but he was sure his hands would be shaking if he were the one trying to get Kyle to drink. Craig's softer tone must have comforted Kyle in some way, too, because Token could see him taking tiny swallows. Craig tipped the bottle back so Kyle could take a breath. This continued for a few minutes, giving Kyle something to drink and then pulling the bottle back. Just when Token was about to suggest they go to the emergency room, Kyle's shaking began to subside. He breathed more slowly, in through his nose, out through his mouth. When Craig again proffered the soda, Kyle put his hand up.

"Shouldn't have much more," he whispered. "Too much sugar and I go the other way."

"Okay." Craig put the bottle down on the sidewalk. When Token looked up, he realized Tweek was standing behind Craig with one hand twisted in Craig's hat, pulling it up in the back. His light eyes looked wilder than usual under his shock of hair, and Token made a mental note to check in with him as soon as he was sure Kyle was okay. "What now?"

The firetrucks and police cars had already arrived at the park, and it appeared that much of the fire was going down. Ambulances pulled up at the corner. Token heaved a sigh and pointed.

"Medical professionals are right there. We can take you over."

"I'm okay, really," Kyle said. He raked his hands through his curls and interlaced his fingers over the back of his neck, keeping his head down. Token listened to him breathe. "I need to check my glucose and eat something."

"There's a buh-b-b-buh...burger joint on the next street," Jimmy said, adjusting his grip on his crutches. "Is that okay?"

"Perfect."

Butters and Token helped lift Kyle to his feet, but Craig had to step in and sling an arm around Kyle's waist to keep him upright for the walk around the corner. It didn't take long to wade through the crowd with Craig's height leading the way. Kyle asked the group to get a table while he went to the restroom.

"I can check my glucose there. I...don't want to do it in front of everybody before we eat." His smile shook, but there was more color in his face than before. He walked with more assurance, and Craig's grip on him relaxed. When they got to the burger joint, though, Kyle's hand hovered over Craig's arm. Token was on Kyle's other side, and he heard him whisper to Craig, "Can you help me? You don't have to do anything, I'd just feel better with someone else nearby." Craig gave a stoic nod and steered Kyle towards the restroom without breaking stride. The rest of them piled into a semicircular booth in the corner that curved around the biggest table in the restaurant.

"It's emptier than I expected in here," Token said, looking around.

"Most people are probably...ngh...watchingthefiretrucks," Tweek said, glancing at the restroom door.

The waitress came up to them almost immediately. Token suggested they order now so it would be a shorter wait for Kyle to eat. "What does he usually get?" Token asked as Jimmy started ordering. "Is a burger okay?"

"Grilled chicken sandwiches and salads and stuff," Butters said. "I always thought Kyle was just bein' healthy, but maybe that's the only stuff that's good for his tummy."

"I don't think diabetes is in Kyle's tummy," Token said gently. Beside him, Tweek ordered for himself and Craig, rattling off toppings faster than the waitress could scribble them on her memo pad. He had to repeat it twice, much to his visible anxiety. They finished ordering, and silence overtook the table after the waitress walked away.

"This is my fault," Clyde said finally. Everyone looked up at him. His arms were crossed on the table, his fingers digging into his jacket sleeves, and his teeth worried his bottom lip. Though Clyde's eyes were glued to the table, Token could see him holding back more tears. "Diabetics have to eat at certain times, right? Kyle wanted to leave and eat, he said so a couple of times, and I was the one who vetoed it. We could've been out of there half an hour earlier, and Kyle wouldn't have gotten sick, and we wouldn't have gotten caught up in that fire, and—"

Token put a hand up in front of him. "Clyde, don't. We're not playing the blame game. It wasn't anybody's fault."

"Yes, it was." Clyde sniffled. "I'm not looking for pity, or to get out of it. I'm admitting it was my fault."

"But, Clyde!" Butters said, putting a hand on his arm. "You were the one who got Kyle out of there, and you were the one who told us what to do about the diabetes!"

"Yeah, and neither of those things would have happened if Mysterion hadn't showed up!" Clyde said, burying his face in his arms.

" _What?_ " the table chorused, everyone leaning in closer. After a minute or two of comfort from Butters and Token, Clyde looked up, eyes red. He filled the table in on what he'd seen, from The Coon's failure to put out the fire to Mysterion's rescuing Kyle from the burning trellis.

"He really is a hero!" Butters said in awe. "I wonder how he knew it was diabetes."

"Kyle was trying to say it," Clyde said miserably. "But I didn't get it. Mysterion had to spell it out for me."

Token was about the interject when Butters' face fell. "I...I didn't even know Kyle had diabetes," he admitted, looking down at his hands. "I'm a pretty lousy friend not to know that."

"No, I don't thinkthat'strue _gah_ ," Tweek said, trembling beside Token. "A lot of people don't, ngh, broadcast their diseases. I bet onlyafewpeopleknow _ack_!"

The waitress returned with two pitchers of water and glasses for the table. 

"I didn't know either," Jimmy said once she'd left. He traced the lip of the glass Token set in front of him. "And Kyle and I ate together in the dining hall for y-y-years. We did a bunch of functions at all times of d-d-day. I never w-wuh-wuh...waaah...once noticed anything odd about his eating habits. Like B-B-Buh-Butters said, I assumed he was just h-hah-health-conscious." He paused. "Kyle's roommates must know, r-right?"

Clyde snapped to attention. "Kenny!" he said. "When Kyle and I were getting out of there, he kept asking for Kenny. I thought he was just loopy from the smoke or whatever..."

"It was probably a side effect of the blood sugar," Token said. He stroked his chin thoughtfully. "But Kenny's in Boston, isn't he?"

"Stan's in Boston," Butters corrected. "Kenny had to work."

Token hesitated. "Do you have his number, Butters? Could you call him? He might know better than we do what to do."

Butters lit up. "Well, you bet! That's a great idea." He pulled out his phone and fiddled with it, putting it to his ear. Kenny must have picked up right away, because after what couldn't have been more than one ring, Butters said, "Heya, Kenny!" Token leaned closer. It was rude to eavesdrop, but he couldn't help himself. Tweek looked over his shoulder at the restroom again. Silently, Token agreed with his nerves; he wasn't sure how long was a long time for Kyle to be in there, but he had Craig, so he must be okay. "Kenny, are you okay? You sound like you just ran a marathon!" Butters was saying. Token's eyes slid back from Tweek to the phone conversation. The muted voice on the other end of the conversation quipped back to Butters. "Oh. Well, no, that makes sense. You're real busy, huh?...The expo? Well, see, it was fine until somebody started a fire, and..." 

Token put his hand out in front of him and moved it in a circle as if he were scooping something towards himself, signaling Butters to hurry up. Butters' light eyes flashed up to him, and guilt spiked his expression.

"Kenny, listen, Kyle's sick," he said. The other end of the line went dead silent. "He, um, his dia—"

" _Where are you?_ " Even from across the table, Token could make out Kenny's question. He exchanged looks with the others.

"We're at a restaurant," Butters squeaked. Token grabbed the dessert menu propped up at the end of their table and held it up in front of Butters. "Shute Street Burgers," Butters read off it. "Kenny, we gave Kyle a little Sprite, and he's just checkin' his...um...his thingie in the bathroom." A quick response, then Butters said, "Yeah. Glucose, that's it. We ordered him a grilled chicken sandwich." Butters bit his lip while Kenny responded. Though he could no longer make out the words, Token could hear the authority in his voice. Butters' side of the conversation was no more enlightening. "Okay. Okay. Yea—are you sure? K-Kenny? Okay...okay..."

Tweek squeaked, and Token turned to see Kyle coming out of the restroom, Craig loping behind him. Even though he was still pale, Kyle was walking on his own.

Butters hung up. "Kenny says we did everything right." Clyde heaved a sigh of relief beside him. "And not to go anywhere. He's coming here."

"Isn't he at work?" Tweek asked, tugging on a lock of hair. "We can driveKylehome _gah_!"

Craig slid in beside Tweek and Kyle beside him. The rest of the table stared.

"I'm fine," Kyle said. "Did you guys get a chance to look at the menu?"

"We ordered a chicken sandwich for you," Clyde said. Kyle poured himself a glass of water and sipped it.

"Great, sounds perfect," he said. He heaved a sigh. "I'm...I'm really sorry for scaring you guys like that."

"Don't even think about apologizing," Token said firmly, and the rest of the table nodded or said  _yeah_ or  _right_. "Kyle, we're just glad you're okay."

"I'll be better after I eat." Kyle's smile didn't meet his tired eyes. "Told you. I get hangry."

It was a weak joke, but the table chuckled indulgently. Their food arrived soon after, and though he was careful not to stare, Token marveled at how composed Kyle was, cutting his sandwich in half and taking small bites. Token hadn't realized how worried he was until Kyle started taking bigger bites, the color returning to his skin notably.

The front door of the restaurant jingled as it opened, and a flash of orange in his peripheral vision caught Token's eye. By the time he looked up, Kyle's blond roommate was hurrying up to their table huffing as if he'd run across the city.

Kyle looked up, too. " _Kenny!_ "

The relief in Kyle's voice was so raw Token could have blushed. He glanced over at Tweek, but everyone else's attention was on Kenny. Kyle pushed into the booth, and Craig, Tweek, and Token slid over to make room at the end of the table. Kenny dropped the duffel bag hanging over his shoulder to the floor and took the seat beside Kyle, putting a hand to his forehead.

"I don't have a fever, you dope." Kyle's smile, finally reaching his eyes, dropped. "Kenny," he said quietly, "aren't you supposed to be at work?"

Kenny's hand lingered at Kyle's temple, and for the first time, he looked up at the rest of the table. Before Token could label the emotion he saw in Kenny's eyes—fear? worry?—all had disappeared under a roguish smile. "Hey, guys," he said, voice easy. When he turned back to Kyle, clearly feeling better if the fixation of his disapproving expression were any indication, Kenny shrugged. "I'm on my lunch break."

"How'd you know we were here?" Kyle's eyes shot to Butters, who gulped.

"Leo called to tell me you were sick," Kenny said softly, fingers finally pulling back from Kyle's face. "You got everybody worried, Ky. They wanted to know what they could do to help."

Kyle flushed, and he looked away. "Sorry," he mumbled again.

"Where do you work?" Craig asked suddenly. Kenny looked up from Kyle's face after a few seconds' delay.

"I work in auto-repair," he said. "Uh...over on Santa Fe Drive."

Craig's eyes flickered. "That's a twenty-minute drive from here at least. You ran up on foot. How the hell'd you get here so fast?"

"Told you, I'm on my lunch break." Kenny tilted his head. His smile stretched crookedly. "I was halfway here when I got the call."

"How'd you get through the cops and all the rubberneckers?" Craig nodded to the window, which offered partial view of the crowds still gathered around the park.

Kenny shrugged good-naturedly. When Kyle looked up at him, Token could see Craig's questions had poked his own suspicion. Kenny redirected his attention to Kyle. "Dunno, man, I was just worried about getting to Kyle. I'd crowd-surf if that was the fastest way."

Kyle pinched the bridge of his nose. "Kenny, I'm  _fine_."

He hadn't been a few minutes earlier, Token wanted to point out. He'd also been thrilled to see Kenny walk through that door, much as he was trying to hide it now. It was comical, Token thought, how someone so pleasant and professional in the office could get so riled up over one person. It was a side of Kyle he'd never seen before.

"Anyway, I didn't want you home alone," Kenny said. "I'd feel better being there." He moved his hand to Kyle's back comfortingly, but not patronizingly, and Token suspected the devil-may-care attitude was a masterfully-crafted facade. Not only was Kenny clearly worried enough to run halfway across town through crowds of people just to see Kyle, but now he was choosing his words carefully to avoid saying  _I know you don't want to be home alone_ , which everyone at the table could see was the truth.

Kyle hemmed anyway. "I should conduct interviews with the police if I can, so I'm not going home right aw—"

"We'll do it," Clyde said. Kyle's eyebrows shot up to his hairline when he looked over. "We'll take care of the info-gathering and e-mail you later. You go home and rest."

"I...I'm fine, really," Kyle protested.

"Stop being stubborn," Kenny said, his thumb tracing circles between Kyle's shoulder blades. Kyle shot him a look that Token was glad not to be on the receiving end of.

"I appreciate it," Kyle said, "but—"

"No buts or coconuts," Kenny said brightly. Kyle glowered. 

"I don't think that'sright _ngh_..."

"What about work?" Kyle asked. He smirked at Kenny. "You have to go back."

Kenny returned his look with a blank stare for a few seconds, then pulled out his phone. He dialed and put it to his ear. When the person on the other end picked up, he croaked out, "Hey, boss. Remember how I said I was getting tuna for lunch?" He stifled a groan. "Don't get tuna for lunch. Hurk...yeah...I will. I'll make up the...urp...hours, prom...ise. Thanks." He hung up, slipped his phone back into his pocket, and turned to Kyle. In a voice clear as day, he asked, "Ready to go?"

Kyle's lips couldn't possibly press closer together, a rain-thin line against his flushed face. Token nearly lost it.

"You need those hours," Kyle said in a low voice.

Kenny talked over him. "I'll make 'em up, no worries." He jumped out of the booth, grabbing his duffel. "I can hail a cab while you get your doggy bag."

"No need," Craig said. He tapped his shoulder against Tweek's. "We'll give you a ride."


	12. Chapter 12

Every time they hit a red light, Tweek's eyes flickered to the rear-view mirror. Not to look at cars behind them, but to look into his own back seat without turning and gawking. Kyle was doing much better, sitting upright with his arms crossed, eyes pointedly fixed out the window. Still, Tweek could see in the angle of his shoulders and the slight tilt of his body that he was leaning closer to Kenny. Who, for his part, had practically scooted into the middle seat to be closer, attention focused entirely on Kyle.

 _They aren't together_ , Tweek reminded himself, a stifled grunt slipping past his lips. He dropped his eyes back to the road where cars in his lane had picked up the green light.  _They're just friends._ So what if Kenny would clearly move mountains to get to Kyle in need. So what if Kyle at his most delirious asked not for food or water but Kenny, Kenny, Kenny. So what if Kenny had touched Kyle more in the last six minutes than Craig had touched Tweek in the last six months.

The light turned red in front of them.

Tweek braked again with a sigh. "Sorry this is, ngh, taking so long," he said, eyes flitting to the rear-view mirror.

"Not your fault, man," Kenny said, close enough that Tweek was sure his breath was tickling Kyle's curly hair. "You can't control the traffic. We really appreciate the ride."

"We really do," Kyle echoed. Without turning his head, he elbowed Kenny gently, pushing him a few inches back. Kenny acquiesced but didn't shift into a more comfortable position, as if his body were pressed to the invisible barrier of Kyle's personal bubble.

Tweek sighed again and flipped on his turn signal when the light turned green.

_They aren't together._

But Craig used to lean, too.

Tweek hadn't understood it at the time. He sat behind Craig and Clyde in their required history seminar and couldn't see the professor's notes from behind Craig's looming height. After weeks of ducking and leaning around him, Tweek had finally tapped his shoulder angrily and asked if he could slouch a little. Craig had looked over his shoulder slowly, his eyes the darkest blue Tweek had ever seen. Pitch blue. Midnight. But they'd brightened a little when they locked on Tweek, and Craig's lips had parted just a fraction when he whispered,  _Okay._

The next time Tweek had come to that class, Craig and Clyde were seated beside his usual spot, displacing two other students. That was it, he'd been adopted into their friend circle. And Craig hovered and leaned and shadowed him for two years until finally he asked,  _Can I take your picture?_

Soon that became routine, too. Craig didn't take anybody's picture, but he asked Tweek everywhere they went. Museums. Coffee shops. Coffee shops and coffee shops. The dining hall. He hovered over him, eyes laser-focused, nose buried in Tweek's hair, breath gentle against the shell of his ear.  _Can I take your picture?_

Another red light. Tweek couldn't help the full-out "gah!" that escaped his lips. Was he taking the longest route? He was just following the GPS's directions. Maybe he should've gone for "shortest distance" instead of "fastest," because this clearly wasn't fast. In the back seat, Kenny chuckled.

In the front passenger seat, Craig rested his forehead against the window.

The crew race. That was the last time Craig had asked to take his picture. It was mid-spring, but cool for the season, and a single slight shiver on Tweek's part was all Craig needed to see to unzip his hoodie and slip it over Tweek's shoulders instead.  _You look cute in my clothes_ , he'd said, point-blank, no embarrassment. It had embarrassed Tweek to no end.  _Can I take your picture?_

Craig told him over and over again that it was his favorite picture of Tweek, there in front of the water, looking over his shoulder with a shy smile, the fog falling over the city behind him.  _This is my favorite picture I've_ ever _taken_ , Craig said one day, and Tweek, burning, covered Craig's face with his own hands, fingers trembling against his brow, his nose, his cupid's bow. Gently, Craig had tilted his head, lips ghosting against Tweek's palms.  _I'm going to submit it for a photo contest._

 _Don't do that!_ Tweek had said, shoving Craig away.  _Don't put a picture of me out where_ _everybodycan_ ngh _seeit_!

_But I love this picture._

Tweek's heart hammered harder than he'd ever felt it beat before.  _Well, crop me out of it, then! Ngh! Just send them the otherhalfofthepicture_ gah!

He did. He won. He threw his award in the trash, and Tweek had to dig it out.

They finally pulled up in front of Kyle and Kenny's apartment building. Kyle jumped out of the car like it was on fire, thanked Tweek and Craig through Craig's rolled-down window, and squirmed away from Kenny, who put a hand on the roof of the car and tilted his head in towards the window.

"Thank you for taking care of him," he said softly, so softly. Tweek's chest constricted. A second later, he was looking in the rear-view mirror again, watching Kenny sling an arm around Kyle's shoulders and guide him into the building. Tweek sighed.

They hit every green light home.


	13. Chapter 13

One thing Kyle knew about Kenny was that he was lousy at being a disciplinarian. It was sad when he thought about it for too long, how Kenny had grown up in a home where his parents either didn't care or screamed their kids to tears, and therefore didn't know what discipline normally looked like, but it was funny when in the present moment Kenny was standing over him with his hands on his hips and his lips pursed, clearly out of his element. "What are you doing?"

"Clyde sent me their notes," Kyle said coolly, cracking his neck and looking back down at his laptop. "The guys got some interviews, and Clyde filled me in on things that are a little foggy in my memory. I should be able to have a draft done tonig—"

"You're supposed to be resting." Kenny grabbed the laptop off of Kyle's lap and yanked it up. Kyle hadn't been expecting the move and followed its trajectory, awkwardly swaying forward from his seat on the couch. "No more work tonight."

"Kenny...!" Kyle reached for his laptop, and Kenny held it out of his reach. Kyle stood and Kenny held it up over his head so he still couldn't reach. "You're going to break it!"

"Then you'd better sit, shouldn't you?"

As much as Kyle hated to admit it, he was tired even from that small exertion of energy. After a few minutes of weak resistance, he slumped back down to the couch. Kenny closed the laptop and retreated to his own room. Kyle could hear him lock the door before he returned.

"I can't have my laptop at all?" he grumbled.

"I know you better than that." Kenny waved the key in the air before slipping it into the pocket of his jeans. "You'll have your internet browser open to something harmless when I walk by, and as soon as I turn away, you'll be working."

Was he that transparent? "I have a deadline, you know."

"You'll still make it if you write the article tomorrow." Kenny inched closer to the chair across from the couch, and Kyle's eyes followed him. When he caught Kyle's gaze, Kenny paused, then sat at the other end of the couch instead. "All right, I have bits and pieces of this story from Leo's call and what your coworkers said. Tell me everything."

Kyle did, haltingly. He hadn't been exaggerating when he said his memories of the day were foggy. He recounted the expo quickly, admitting that after a light oatmeal breakfast, he should have been more cautious about lunch. "I didn't think the expo would be that big, so I didn't bring a snack or anything."

Kenny listened patiently, worry etched in the corners of his eyes as Kyle admitted to his stomach hurting, his sweating, his dizziness. Then he got to the fire.

"I think it was that guy Cartman was talking about," Kyle said. "Clyde heard him call himself 'The Coon.'" Kenny's eyebrows lifted, but the rest of his expression stayed the same. "I heard him saying something about putting out the fire, but I think he started it. Clyde said the same thing."

"Sounds like Cartman's kind of hero," Kenny said lightly. That at least earned a laugh from Kyle.

"There was fire...everywhere, and..." Kyle's voice trailed off mid-sentence as he strained to think. He'd been on the verge of passing out and in fact had lost his footing in the crowd, falling, sure in the back of his mind somewhere that he would be trampled, crushed, burned. How had he avoided it? A flash of purple crossed his mind, and Kyle sat bolt upright. Kenny jerked up with him, an arm extending towards him automatically, Kenny's fingers brushing his sleeve. "Mysterion!"

"What?" Kenny asked, cupping Kyle's elbow in his palm. Kyle eased back against the cushions.

"Mysterion showed up again," he said. "He pushed me out of the way of a stand that was falling over. He was the one who told Clyde it was a diabetic attack..." Kyle massaged his temples with the pads of his fingers and squeezed his eyes shut. "How did he know that?"

"Maybe he's seen it before," Kenny said quietly, his fingers slipping from Kyle's arm. "Maybe it scared him."

"It scared everybody," Kyle said. His hands shifted from his temples to cover his face, and he exhaled. "I feel terrible."

"Terrible like sick or terrible like guilty?" Kenny asked.

"The second one. Mostly."

Kenny got up to make a pot of tea, and Kyle reclined back on the couch. His eyes closed against his will as the gentle aroma of vanilla wafted over him. He was almost asleep when he heard the soft  _clink_ of a mug against the coffee table—Stan and Kenny never used coasters, no matter how many times Kyle nagged—and felt the cushion at his feet dip under Kenny's weight.

"Trying to lull me to sleep?" Kyle slurred, smiling without opening his eyes. He only ever drank herbal tea, and the only one currently stocked in their kitchen that would smell like vanilla was Sleepytime.

"Don't think you need my help with that," Kenny said. Kyle could feel Kenny's hand resting over his ankle, the warmth from his palm reaching Kyle even through his jeans. Cracking one eye open, Kyle shot him a halfhearted look, and as always, the affectionate twinkle in Kenny's eyes only increased. Why bother glaring? It only made Kenny sillier, now that he knew Kyle wasn't sick and, if he were being honest, not really mad, either.

Kyle shut his eyes again. The apartment was quiet. Not exactly quieter than usual; Stan wasn't a loud roommate unless he was in the bathroom and didn't know anybody else was home, which Kenny lovingly dubbed 'Candid Karaoke.' But there was no music or television, and Kenny had opted for the floor lamp instead of the overhead lights. Add in the Sleepytime tea and Kenny's occasional hum as his thumb traced patterns in Kyle's Achilles tendon, and Kyle knew he was a goner.

With one socked toe, he poked Kenny's hip, tracing the outline of his bedroom key through the pocket of his jeans, and Kenny pulled away. "Ah-ah-ah, no can do, Ky. You're on light duty tonight." 

Even with his eyes shut, Kyle could hear the whisper of breathlessness in Kenny's first syllable. A smile coiled across his face.

"Mr. McCormick, I do believe you're ticklish there." He wiggled his toes against Kenny's hip again, and the stifled chuckle validated him. The cloud of sleep receded in the corners of his mind, his lids not quite so heavy when he opened his eyes. Kenny had edged away from him, cornered at the other end of the couch, a wary eye on the offending toe. Kyle tried to poke at him again, but Kenny was prepared, catching his ankle in one hand and pulling his sock off with the other.

" _Whoo_! Maybe this was a bad idea," Kenny said, flinging the sock across the room. Kyle tried to squirm out of his grip, but it was too late; Kenny's half-moon nails, just long enough to pass the curve of his fingertip, ghosted along the arch of his foot. Kyle nearly jumped off the couch, the ticklish sensation shot up his leg so quickly. He clapped both hands over his mouth to shovel back in any laughter threatening to escape. Kenny's grin was manic. "Mr. Broflovski, I  _do_ believe you're ticklish here," he said in a snooty voice. Kyle kicked his other foot up and landed a solid hit just above Kenny's knee.

"I don't sound like that!"

"Oh, but you  _doooo_ ," Kenny sang, his fingertips shimmying along Kyle's instep. Kyle shrieked with laughter, his hands not fast enough to guard his mouth. With a triumphant cackle, Kenny hovered over him, letting his fingers tickle up to Kyle's stomach, armpits, neck. He'd always been ticklish, notoriously ticklish, but Kyle couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a tickle fight. Childhood, probably. Only Kenny could bring him back to the fourth grade without a wince of feeling childish.

Sides hurting from laughter, Kyle decided that his defensive tactic wasn't working anyway, so he might as well go on the offensive and try to tickle back. Kenny had an older brother, though, and he was a wiry guy, dodging Kyle's wiggling fingers at every interval without losing pace on his offense. Kyle squirmed, and Kenny swayed, and as he felt the edge of the couch disappearing beneath him, Kyle thought:  _Should've seen_ that  _coming._

It happened so quickly, Kyle almost didn't register it. Kenny hooked one leg around Kyle's to turn him so that Kenny took the brunt of the impact hitting the floor. One hand curled protectively around Kyle's head, the other pushing the coffee table out of the way. By the time Kyle's brain caught up with him, he was cushioned on the floor with Kenny hovering over him.

"Shit. Kyle, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"

"When did your reflexes get so good?" Kyle asked, sitting up. Kenny didn't move back until they were nearly nose-to-nose, eyes searching Kyle's expression, likely for traces of pain.

"When you weren't looking," Kenny said, and Kyle laughed at the joke.

"Tickle truce," he said, offering Kenny his hand. They shook on it. "Think the tea is cool enough to drink now?" 

"Uh."

Kyle followed Kenny's glance to the coffee table where his mug had capsized, hot Sleepytime splashed over the edge and onto the carpet.

"I'll clean that," Kenny said.

"You're damn right you will," Kyle said, rolling his eyes. "And you'll have to make me more tea."

"Oh, good. If you're bossing me around, you must be feeling better." Kenny got up and retreated to the kitchen area for paper towels. Kyle stayed on the floor a moment longer, running a hand through his impossibly tangled curls. Even after he cut his childhood mop of hair down to a proportionate amount, once it started getting long, it spiraled. Kyle would have to cut it soon.

He shook his head, and a glint of gold caught his eye. There, under the couch, was the key to Kenny's room. Kyle looked at it for half a second before grabbing it and slipping it into his pocket.

"I'm going to rest in my room for a little bit," he said, getting up. Kenny gave him a thumbs-up from the kitchen. Once he was out of Kenny's sight, Kyle passed his own bedroom door and slipped the key into Kenny's lock. It popped open, and Kyle reminded himself silently that  he couldn't make any noise. He had to be stealthy, like a ninja, or—

Or like Kenny, apparently.

Two arms wrapped around his waist and picked him straight up off his feet. Kyle yelped. "Nice try, Ky," Kenny chuckled against his ear, carrying him back down the hallway and to the couch. Resistance was futile. It wasn't Kyle's imagination; Kenny wasn't just faster than he used to be, he was stronger, too. When had that happened?


	14. Chapter 14

Standing at the bus stop in the morning with Stan on one side and Kenny on the other brought back a haze of childhood memories. All that was missing, Kyle thought, was the snow and the crisp mountain air. Well, those were the things he wouldn't mind adding to the current setup. He certainly didn't miss—

" _Kahl!_ "

Kyle squeezed his eyes shut. This couldn't be happening. His karma could not be that far down the toilet.

When he opened his eyes, of course, it was happening. Cartman had joined their lineup, red-faced, like a squishy tomato with a hat. Kenny shifted a step closer to Kyle, insinuating himself between them. Preemptively, Kyle was sure, thinking of the last time they'd seen Cartman.

"'Morning," Stan said warily, punctuating his sentence with a yawn. 

Cartman ignored him, shoving a newspaper in Kyle's face. "What the hell are you even doing in that office, Kyle? 'Cause it sure as shit isn't reporting!"

Kyle's eyes focused on the small print in front of him, trying not to go cross-eyed as the textured paper tickled his nose. That week's  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ , opened to his coverage of the expo. Pictures Craig had taken during their tour and a few of the fire and aftermath framed the text. Kyle had been more than a little embarrassed to make the front page in his first month, though Token had been quick to set him straight: "The second most exciting story we have this week is an interview with the president of a knitting club at the local library. We don't care that the new guy wrote the cover story."

Stan plucked the paper out of Cartman's hands. "'The annual Denver Farmers' Market Fall Floral Festival'—boy, that's a mouthful—'started off as a gathering of—'"

"Not that part, dumbass." Cartman jabbed the paper with one gloved finger. "Here."

Stan shuffled the paper in his hands a little bit and scanned for where Cartman wanted him to read. "Um...'A masked arsonist targeted the festival just before noon, sending countless stands and crops up in flames. Panicked crowds rushed for the exit, but only a few minor injuries were reported, largely thanks to direction from festival organizers and volunteers, who weathered the emergency situation with composure and professionalism.'" He glanced up at Kyle. "Nice one, dude. Uh." He cleared his throat and looked back down from Cartman's scowl. "'Denver police, firemen, and paramedics arrived on the scene promptly and had the situation under control within half an hour of their arrival.'"

"Did you read that?" Cartman howled, ripping the paper from Stan's hands. Stan yelped and looked down at his gloved hands, an instinct Kyle understood because he also looked; without Stan's gloves, he definitely would have been covered in papercuts. "'A masked arsonist'? You called the Coon a 'masked arsonist' in black-and-white print, you hack!"

"The Coon?" Kyle echoed.

"How do you know it was the Coon?" Kenny asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.

Cartman sputtered. "Obviously because I was  _there_ , Kenny, don't they teach you basic logic in community college? Haven't they covered two-plus-two yet?"

Kenny said nothing, but his blue eyes blazed. Kyle opened his mouth to fight the multiple counts of ignorance Cartman had crammed into two questions when Cartman pointed to the paper again.

"And even worse, we get this: 'Also on the scene was Mysterion, the local hero whose influence has reduced crime in downtown Denver over the past few weeks. Police interviewed confirmed that Mysterion provided aid in putting out fires, escorting attendees to safety, and ferrying supplies between emergency units.' What the crap, Kyle? The Coon is an unnamed arsonist, which isn't even true, and some douche wearing his underwear inside out is Denver's 'local hero'?"

Kyle was still ready to fight Cartman's previous burst of offensiveness, but Kenny had relaxed listening to the part of the article concerning Mysterion. In fact, Kyle was sure there was smugness in the corner of his smile. If anyone understood reveling in Cartman's unhappiness, it was Kyle.

"I reported the truth," he said coolly, egging Cartman on. "That tool started the fire, and Mysterion showed up to help. I saw him myself." Kyle wasn't about to mention that Mysterion had rescued him again, or the circumstances under which that had happened; he and Kenny had already agreed to tell Stan—and, should it ever come up, Kyle's mother—an abridged version without the diabetic episode.

Cartman waved the newspaper in Kyle's face again, and Kyle leaned back. Gloves couldn't protect his eyes from papercuts. "God, Kyle, if you're all about reporting truth, why don't you just come out and report how bad you want Mysterion's—"

The rumble of the incoming bus drowned out the next couple of words, and Kyle's first thought was that it was just as well that he didn't hear it. Kenny was still standing between them, though, and proximity must have carried Cartman's voice to his ears, because the next thing Kyle knew, Kenny had whirled on him with a fist pulled back, a punch ready to go. Vaguely aware of Stan's verbal tic of 'Dude!' behind him, Kyle moved on instinct and looped his arm through Kenny's, dragging him up the steps and into the bus. The driver's eyes burned in their sunken sockets as she watched Kyle, Kenny, and Stan tap their pass cards and move into the bus. Cartman, who apparently—thankfully—wasn't joining them, stood outside the door glowering after them.

Kyle dragged Kenny to the back and pulled him down with him into two seats on the opposite side of the bus so they wouldn't be able to see Cartman out the window. Stan took the single sideways seat beside them. 

"Kenny, what the hell?" Kyle hissed. Kenny's fists were both still balled, nearly trembling. The scowl splitting his face was so un-Kenny-like that Kyle's anger simmered down to the worry that bore it. "Kenny...?"

"Never thought I'd be saying this to  _you_ ," Stan said, "but I have a lifetime of practice with Kyle, so I think I can manage. It's just Cartman, dude."

"Cartman needs to learn to keep his mouth shut," Kenny said, gritting his teeth. The bus jerked into motion, and Kenny dropped his hands to his knees, fingers digging into the fabric of his pants.

"I mean, you're not wrong, but getting mad is just going to encourage him." The words coming out of Stan's mouth, down to the exact inflection, were so familiar to Kyle that the fact that they weren't directed at him made it seem as if they were spoken in a foreign language.

"That's twice he's made some remark about Mysterion," Kyle mused. Kenny's eyes cut to him, and he shrugged. "I didn't hear it, but I can imagine. Why do you s'pose it is that Cartman's first choice of insult is homophobic, like, eighty percent of the time? It used to be only about fifty or sixty percent."

"He upped the ante after you..." Stan trailed off, then shrugged to signal he wasn't going to complete that sentence.  _Came out_ , Kyle finished mentally. Stan didn't care, hadn't ever cared ("Whatever makes you happy, dude. Want to shoot some hoops?"), and neither had Kenny ("Did you hear that? It's the sound of every girl in the school except Wendy's heart breaking. Maybe even Wendy's a little, 'cause Stan don't got the booty." Kenny was always convinced that girls were admiring Kyle's butt, which Kyle found ridiculous.), but Cartman's abrasiveness had actually gotten worse that last year or so in South Park. He would have been an easy contact to cut ties with anyway, but that only made it easier.

"Yeah, I guess that's on me," Kyle said wryly, rolling his eyes. Stan flashed him a crooked smile.

"It's not on you," Kenny snapped. Kyle started. For all the years they'd been friends, Kyle had only seen Kenny lose his cool a handful of times, and two out of two interactions with Cartman since he moved to Denver had resulted in anger. Kyle wondered if he were a bad influence, then wondered if being anti-Cartman was really more of a good influence.

"Now, don't get mad when I say this," Stan said, and Kyle and Kenny both looked up at him, "but, uh...not the way Cartman talks about it or anything, but...are you? Kind of. Um. Interested in Mysterion?"

Kyle's face flooded. " _What?_ "

"I said not to get mad!" Stan said, throwing his hands up. "I'm not trying to poke the bear, dude! I was just wondering. You seem to think a lot of him and his hero-ness and his...what did Butters call them? Fancy underpants?"

Kenny snorted beside him, but even realizing that the tension was broken and the day could go back to normal, Kyle wasn't letting Stan get away with that. He gave his best friend his hardest punch in the arm. Stan yelped, but more from being startled than from pain; Kyle suspected his knuckles were throbbing more from the impact than Stan's years-of-carpentry-and-metalworking-experience arm.

"Is this the news confirming rumors that Mysterion is incredibly sexy?" Kenny asked, eyes bright. "Because I expect to be quoted and photographed in the feature."

"Not to mention incredibly mys _terious_ ," Stan added.

Kyle seethed. "I'm going to get home first and change the locks, you know that?"

When the bus next came to a herky-jerk stop that sent all of its passengers off-balance, Kenny saluted his friends. "This is my stop," he said. "Stan, knock 'em dead, try not to be out too late. We worry." Stan snorted. "Ky, same to you, crush those deadlines." Hopping out of his seat, he added, "Oh, and...since I didn't hear definitive denial..." He grinned over his shoulder. "Good luck with Mys-turns-you-on."

Stan howled, and Kyle braced his hands against his seat, pulling one knee up to his stomach. "Good luck getting  _my footprint_ out of  _your ass!_ "

Kenny bounced off the bus and waved to Kyle and Stan through the window. For the rest of the ride, Kyle sat with his arms and legs crossed primly, while Stan, beside him in Kenny's old seat, occasionally snickered and tried to pass it off as coughing.

"Allergies," he wheezed around a wide smile.

"Footprint," Kyle reminded him, and the threat curbed Stan's amusement slightly more than it had Kenny's. A few whole minutes would go by before Stan snickered again.


	15. Chapter 15

The Monday after the expo, Clyde had come into the office with a huge bag of hard candies and the same eight-pack of mini orange juices that Kyle kept in his fridge at home. It had taken Kyle a few days to reassure the bullpen that it was extremely rare that he ever had an attack. Most of them accepted it, though Token eyed him warily at times and Clyde was more than a little skittish anytime he noticed Kyle eating. Even now, Kyle caught his furtive glances out of the corner of his eye.

"Are you okay, Kyle?" Clyde finally asked. Kyle looked up, patience wearing thin, but Clyde's round face was so lined with concern that he couldn't bring himself to snap.

"I'm fine, Clyde."

"You seem kind of tense, is all." Clyde deflated, and Kyle wondered if his voice had come out sharper than he intended. When he glanced down at his hand, he did see that he had his pen in a death grip. If he didn't lighten up, he might break it.

"I ran into someone I knew in high school this morning," he said. "Someone unpleasant. Nothing's wrong, I promise. This is just that guy who..." Kyle gestured aimlessly. 

"Whose very existence makes you angry?" Craig supplied. Kyle snapped his finger and pointed at him.

"Bingo."

"We've all got one of those," Craig said, and beneath the crushing weight of his monotone, Kyle detected sympathy. Tweek glanced at Craig but looked back to his three monitors quickly. Kyle could see his eyebrows pulled together as Tweek worried his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Why don't'cha sic Mysterion on him?" Clyde suggested brightly. Kyle groaned. "What? He saved you twice. Don't you have, like, a bat-signal for him or something?"

Token laughed. "Just because Kyle's encountered a vigilante a couple of times doesn't make his life a comic book, Clyde."

"Are you kidding? Rescued from muggers, some nut starts a fire...I keep waiting for Stan Lee to show up in the office for his cameo."

As the conversation steered into less serious territory, Kyle felt his shoulders relax. He returned to his copyediting, marking spelling mistakes in nearly every sentence. He'd have to touch base with Adler on the articles he accepted, because Kyle was practically rewriting the sports section these days to accommodate the mess Adler's freelancers were making of their grammar.

The bullpen quieted back into work with the exception of Craig leaning over Tweek's shoulder and murmuring suggestions for touching up his photos. Kyle had polished off four pieces when he looked up and caught Jimmy's eye. The downward turn of his lips gave Kyle pause; Jimmy's resting expression was a smile. When he tilted his head towards the break room, Kyle nodded. Jimmy pushed back out of his seat, grabbed his crutches, and clacked over to the other room. Kyle followed.

"Everything okay?" Kyle asked quietly once they were apart from the bullpen. Jimmy leaned forward a bit on his crutches, then swayed back to his usual posture. The action was a habit of when he was thinking carefully, though Kyle still tensed when he did it, ready to dive forward and catch his friend if Jimmy lost his balance.

"You know, K-Kuh-Kyle, I've been thinking lately...you know that saying, 'Once is chance, twice is c-cuh-coincidence, thrice is a p-p-puh-pahhh....pattern'?" Kyle had heard some variation of it. "You're up to coincidence, but-b-but-buh-but with it being a vigilante, I'm not so sure."

"You think I'm jinxed?" Kyle only injected a hint of teasing into his voice, in case that's what Jimmy really thought. "Or that I've got a superhero stalker?"

"Neither, exactly," Jimmy hedged. "Just that of all the people who needed help at the exp-puh-po...Mysterion prioritized you."

"I was close to the back, and I was near things that were coming apart from the fire. I'd still put my money on 'coincidence,' Jimmy."

"Well, Mysterion appears to b-be a good guy, so if he's k-kuh-kahh...k-k-k..." Jimmy blew air out the side of his mouth. "Keeping an eye on you, it's fine by me. I just think you should watch out for other g-guys."

"Other guys?"

"Like that arsonist from the expo." Jimmy swayed on his crutches again. "We're the news, so it's important to share information with the juh-general p-public, but the more publicity Mysterion gets, the more people like that arsonist may c-come out of the woodwork looking to start something."

Kyle paused. "Jimmy, are you warning me to watch out for  _supervillains_?"

"If you and Mysterion c-cuh-cross paths again, it'll be a pattern, and that could lure d-d-d-dangerous characters to you." Jimmy swallowed. "I just want you to be c-c-careful, Kyle."

Kyle's heart swelled at his friend's concern. Jimmy wasn't wrong that people did strange and sometimes scary things over news reports.

"I'll be careful," he promised.


	16. Chapter 16

Kyle stretched his arms over his head, pushing up until they trembled, feeling his vertebrae pop satisfyingly. After a full day hunched over his computer, he knew he needed to get up and shake his legs out, too, but there was still a lot to get through. He'd asked Token earlier for advice on talking to Adler and P.C. about adhering to grammatical standards better in their acceptances but was putting off those conversations until morning. He was just the assistant, the new guy, and he didn't want to overstep his position. He also didn't want to be spending hours being the human spell checker, though.

There were still a handful more articles to be reviewed when five o'clock rolled around. He could do them in the morning, but Kyle opted to stay late. Unless it was one of those rare nights where Stan got out of work on time, he'd be chained to his desk, too, and Kenny was working a night shift after his afternoon class today. No reason to go home and bum around by himself. He waved good night to Jimmy, Token, and Clyde on their way out, the latter biting his lip until Craig said he and Tweek were staying late, too. Kyle apologized for making them feel obligated to stay and "babysit" him. Craig blinked slowly.

"Okay, well, we actually have to stay to finish the layout stuff."

"We stay late every Thursday," Tweek said, tilting his head. It was the most composed Kyle had ever seen him, until he shuddered and added, "Gah!"

It was about an hour to finish his copyediting. Tweek and Craig were quiet workers, too, and Kyle was sure it would have taken longer to complete his tasks if he'd put them off until morning. As he shuffled the last of his papers into his outbox, he lightly suggested that perhaps Clyde was wrong about his side of the bullpen being the "shit-together" group. Tweek squeaked, but Kyle was pretty sure the wide flash of teeth was a smile, that the shrill noise had been a laugh. Craig nodded in completely serious agreement.

Halloween was getting closer every day, and the temperature just kept dropping. Kyle hoped kids wouldn't have to wear jackets over their costumes this year; it completely ruined the experience of dressing up. That had been something he, Stan, and Kenny had taken very seriously when they were kids. Kenny especially. The one year Stan's and Kyle's moms had won the battle of jacket-wearing on Halloween, Kenny had been jacketless, and his friends stewed with jealousy even as Kenny shook and sniffled all night, inching closer to Kyle every time a burst of wind met them head-on. He'd been out of school for a week, Kyle recalled, and when he came back, Kenny said it was the sickest he'd ever been.

"Worth it." The words had come out muffled through his ratty parka, but his eyes had been bright. That was the year they dressed up as superheroes. Kyle remembered standing in Kenny's room, not really wanting to sit on the discolored carpet, watching Kenny show Karen how to pin a felt cutout of the Batman emblem to the front of an old, grey sweatshirt and hand-stitch it on.

These were the thoughts running through Kyle's mind when he turned the corner and nearly doubled over the collapsible barrier set up on the sidewalk. Kyle jerked to a stop. The bright red lights of police cars were on, though no sirens accompanied them. A few cops stood around, one with hands on his hips, another thoughtfully rubbing his chin, as they examined the brick exterior of the backside of a restaurant. Kyle walked past it every day, and since it had no windows, the back wall often served as prime real estate for advertisements. For the past few weeks, it had boasted an enormous beacon for a costume shop downtown.

Tonight, spray-painted over the banner in bright red, someone had written  _ **Chaos is coming. Your hero will fall.**_

A purple cape and black mask flashed through Kyle's mind. He sucked in a deep breath and was about to call out to the cops when a gloved hand wrapped around his mouth from behind.

"It's me," Mysterion growled in his ear. The scream of alarm crawled back down Kyle's throat, and he relaxed. Mysterion guided him backwards into the side street from which he'd come. Kyle followed without resistance. Even through the gloves he could feel the warmth of Mysterion's hands, one over his mouth, the other on his hip pulling him away from the crime scene. "Listen," Mysterion said.

The policemen were talking. "What do you make of this?" one asked.

"Prank," another answered, tipping his hat over salt-and-pepper hair. "Teenagers, probably. We can scout around for some clues, but it's not likely we'll find a culprit for graffiti."

"Not necessarily," the first cop said. "Remember, we got that anonymous call that led us to those punks who vandalized the bridge? Caught 'em red-handed."

Mysterion's thumb shifted against Kyle's cheek, and Kyle knew instinctively that he had been the one to make that call.

"Yeah. That was an exception," the older cop said, not unkindly. "But it was a call that led us to this graffiti, too, some kid wailing about a threat to the whole city. Probably did it himself and was looking for recognition. Wanted a big fuss over a little crime." He heaved a sigh. "Most criminals are like that. Small fries with big egos, think they're so great and powerful."

"If the caller did it, can't we just trace the number and question him?"

"Tip came from a payphone."

"Those still  _exist_?"

"Send the squad cars back," the older cop said tiredly. "You and I can stay and scout around, but I'm not indulging some punk kid over this."

"You don't think it's a real threat?" the first cop asked. "'Chaos is coming'?"

"One too many episodes of  _Game of Thrones_ , I think."

"'Your hero will fall'?" the first cop pressed.

The older cop sighed. "Vague enough that people will interpret it however they want. Specific enough that the news could run with a few theories. The business owner has been alerted. When he gets here, we'll help him take down the sign before things get too crazy."

Kyle was hyper aware of Mysterion standing behind him, taller, stronger, shrouded in mystery. They waited in silence, Mysterion's hand still over his mouth but gently enough that Kyle could have brushed it away at any time, and watched the cops. The other officers milling around packed up the barriers and drove away with their lights off while the two whose conversation Kyle and Mysterion overheard scouted the area. They came up clueless. The owner arrived, consulted with the cops briefly, and helped them take down the sign.

In the twenty or thirty minutes they stood in the shadow of the next street, Kyle could have turned and gotten a good look at Mysterion's face. He might have even been able to unmask him. Yet he stayed still, watching and waiting, wondering why Mysterion hadn't simply steered him in another direction, what Mysterion wanted him to see.

When the cops and owner had gone, the vandalized advertisement removed, Mysterion waited a few minutes before his hands slipped away from Kyle. As he passed Kyle and stepped into the former crime scene, Mysterion's cape brushed against Kyle's arm.

Kyle waited.

"Don't report on this," Mysterion said finally. He didn't even turn to look at Kyle. "Don't give him the satisfaction."

"Him who?" Kyle asked, stepping closer. "Who did this?"

"I can't say for sure. I have my suspicions, but no evidence."

"Well, what's your theory, then?" Kyle pressed. He inched closer, shivering as a burst of wind met him. Funny, he hadn't felt cold standing on that side street.

"I think that cop was right," Mysterion said, throwing his cape over his shoulder. Kyle leaned back to avoid getting smacked in the face and stopped advancing. Even with Mysterion's back to him, Kyle sensed that the vigilante knew he was getting closer and wanted distance between them. "The person who called was the vandal himself, looking to make a stir."

Kyle started. "But...isn't this a threat to you?" Mysterion turned to look over his shoulder at Kyle. "'Your hero will fall'?"

A smirk stretched across the vigilante's face, his mouth beneath his mask illuminated in the streetlights. "Like the cop said, it's vague enough that people can interpret it many ways. Am I your first thought when someone says 'your hero'?"

His confidence was tipping into arrogance, and Kyle bristled. "You've been in the news. A lot of people would think it's you."

"It's not. I've been in the news because _you_ wrote about me," Mysterion said. Kyle pursed his lips. "So then, are you included in that 'a lot of people' who think I'm their hero?"

"No," Kyle said, proud of himself for not answering too quickly. "You're just the first idiot in a mask to come to mind." The answer seemed to surprise Mysterion. He reeled back slightly, then laughed. Even that reflex came out raspy. Kyle crossed his arms. "Well, if it isn't you, then who is the 'hero'?"

Sobering, Mysterion sighed, didn't answer right away, and sighed again. He turned his back to Kyle. "The vandal. A wannabe hero trying to make himself look good. A self-fulfilling prophecy."

Kyle lifted one hand to cup his chin thoughtfully, his elbow resting against his other wrist. Mysterion was being far too candid for someone who claimed he didn't have enough evidence to support his theory. "You're saying that a wannabe hero vandalized this building with a calling card to himself from a fake threat, called the cops to try and get some attention for himself, and...may be planning a follow-up stunt of chaos so he can play superhero?"

"That's what I'm saying."

A follow-up stunt of chaos from a wannabe hero. Kyle took another step closer to Mysterion, a big step. A childhood memory whispered in his ear: the South Park Elementary schoolyard, he and Stan at half court, Kenny standing under the basket.

"Mother May I...take three giant steps?" Stan had asked.

"You may take three giant steps backwards," Kenny replied benevolently. Stan grumbled and took less generous giant steps than he would have if he were going forward.

To be cheeky, Kyle also requested three giant steps forward. Kenny's eyes glittered.

"You may."

 _Mother May I_ lingered on Kyle's tongue as the wind blew Mysterion's cape within his reach.

"Kyle, what do you know about the Coon?" Mysterion turned abruptly. Kyle froze, pulling his arms back to his sides.

"Uh...not much," he admitted.

"Think you could do a little research for me?" Mysterion asked. "Dig into this guy's background a little?"

Kyle's eyebrows raised. "Why? You seem to know more than I do."

"I have my limitations."

Kyle waited for Mysterion to elaborate, but he didn't. "Okay, then. Why me? Because I've reported on you a few times?"

"Because I think you're the smartest person I know."

As far as responses went, that was the furthest from Kyle's expectations. He opened his mouth and shut it twice before swallowing.

"Okay. I'll...see what I can do."

"Thanks, Kyle." Mysterion rolled his shoulders, his cape billowing forward. "You'd better get home. Don't worry. It'll be a safe trip."

He darted off before Kyle could say another word, shimmied up the nearest drainpipe, and disappeared into the night. Kyle stared after him open-mouthed for a few minutes more before checking his phone. It had been nearly an hour since he left the office. Stan and Kenny must not have been home yet, because there were no texts, but if he stayed out any later, he might not beat them home. They'd worry if he were that late without letting them know where he was. 

Kyle hurried home, but he didn't run.


	17. Chapter 17

The apartment was dark when Kyle got in. He sighed with relief when he turned on the light in the common area; when Stan and Kenny got home, they'd be none the wiser that he was two hours later than usual.

_Thump._

Kyle froze. That was the sound of a body moving around, coming from the bedrooms. The lights had all been turned off. A burglar? His heart pounded. What if Stan and Kenny were home after all and were bound and gagged in the other room while some thief made off with their laptops and loose change? Kyle's hands shook, the sound of Kenny's old clunker of a computer's wheezing fan in his mind. He'd lose all his homework. Hours of coding. And what about Stan? Kyle knew he'd been tweaking designs of his own on top of the work he was doing for the architectural firm. Did he back it up?

_Don't worry. It'll be a safe trip._

Mysterion's rasp flitted back into Kyle's mind, and he took a deep breath. Surely Mysterion had been watching over him to make sure he got home safely. Would he stick around, waiting in the shadows to make sure Kyle got in all right? He wouldn't watch over him this far just to let a robber hurt Kyle, right?

Kyle wasn't positive until that moment that he'd well and truly lost his mind. He inched down the hallway when another _thump_ sounded from Kenny's room. Kyle paused. The light was on. He could see it gleaming around the closed door's edges, sending a small pool of light out onto the floor of the darkened hallway.

"Kenny?" Kyle called. He reached for the doorknob. "Is that you?"

The door swung open, and Kyle yelped, jumping back. Kenny's eyes widened.

"Dude! You okay?"

Kyle sucked in a deep breath, his hand hovering over his heart. "Yep," he said. "I'm fine."

"You look like you just saw a ghost." Kenny stepped backwards into his room and beckoned Kyle in. The room was barer and plainer than either Kyle's or Stan's, and, true to his promise, Kyle could see that Kenny had relinquished a corner of his room to Stan's tool collection and a huge paper shopping bag full of rolled-up blueprints. Kenny had no desk and chair, so Kyle sat on the edge of his unmade bed. A shiver ran through him.

"Did you come in through the window?" he asked, looking around. Kenny's window was shut.

Kenny laughed. "Nah, man, I just forgot to close it earlier when I left. You think I'd fit through there?" He slumped over and puffed up his cheeks in exaggeration, but Kyle would have no problem believing Kenny could slip through a window. He wasn't scrawny by any means, but he had a long, lean build. "Hopefully it won't take long to warm back up in here."

"I didn't know you were home," Kyle said, looking around the floor. Kenny's sheets and comforter were half-kicked off the bed, pooling over onto the carpet like a shoddily-improvised tent. He reached over to straighten the sheet, and Kenny gently smacked his wrist.

"I can clean my own room, Mom, cut it out."

Kyle flushed. "S-Sorry. Habit."

"I know," Kenny said, unperturbed. "Mr. Finicky."

"Unlike you." Kyle took in his friend's dark blue shirt, the one that most brought out the color of Kenny's eyes, mis-buttoned and rumpled in way that reminded Kyle of Tweek. "Did you not look in a mirror this morning?"

Kenny glanced down at himself. "Eh, it's fine. It was tucked in earlier. Nobody noticed." Kyle rolled his eyes. "I just got in a few minutes ago and went straight to the bathroom. Guess I forgot to get the lights." Kenny reached up with both hands and raked his fingers through his hair, which looked even more windblown than usual to Kyle. "Sorry I scared you."

"You didn't." The answer was automatic and completely contradictory to Kyle's behavior, but Kenny didn't call him on it. Kyle pulled his legs up under himself. "I saw Mysterion again tonight."

Kenny shoved the rest of his comforter off the edge of his bed and plopped down beside him. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah...? Why wouldn't I be?" Kyle realized belatedly that the last two times he'd encountered Mysterion, Kenny had found him at the onset or aftermath of a diabetic attack. "Yeah. Yes, I'm fine."

Kenny nodded. "Okay. So, what happened?"

Kyle filled him in on the graffiti and Mysterion's analysis. He hesitated for a moment on including Mysterion's request, but there was no harm in telling Kenny. He wouldn't fly off the handles and try to talk Kyle out of doing anything unless it were really dangerous.

"He said I was the smartest person he knows," Kyle blurted out, his voice turning shy for the last few words. Before Kenny could react, he forged ahead. "Do you think that's just because I keep writing about him? I mean, it doesn't seem like he's interacted much with anyone else in the media, or even that many people, since social media makes reporters out of everyone. Or maybe," Kyle pressed, eyes widening with realization, "I've met Mysterion in real life. Like, the person under the mask. Maybe it's a clue."

"Maybe you're reading too much into this," Kenny said, laughing. "He's probably just trying to butter you up so you'll help him."

"I don't think that's it," Kyle said, frowning.

Kenny's teasing smile softened. "I'm kidding, Ky, you know I totally agree with Mysterion on this. You  _are_ the smartest person I know."

"Am not." Kyle looked over his shoulder for Kenny's pillow to give himself time to hide his smile. "But do you think I really do know him?"

"Maybe. I mean, Denver's a big city. You might sit next to him on the bus every morning."

"I sit next to  _you_ on the bus, Kenny. Or Stan."

"Maybe it's Stan," Kenny said, bugging out his eyes at Kyle, who smacked him in the face with his own pillow. "Well, I'm just saying! Where is he right now?"

The door creaked open out in the hall. "Hello? I'm home!"

Kyle shot Kenny a pointed look. Kenny mouthed back,  _From crime-fighting._

"He's not  _Stan_ ," Kyle whispered. Stan's footsteps echoed in the hall, moving towards them. "He's too tall to be Stan."

"What was that about Stan's tallness?" Stan asked from the doorway. Kyle and Kenny looked up at the same time. Stan crossed one foot in front of the other and leaned his shoulder against the door frame, one eyebrow expertly crooked with suspicion. Though Kenny now towered a good head over him, Kyle had at least maintained a solid two inches over Stan. It was a sore enough point that Kenny and Kyle didn't tease him often, but not so sore that the subject was never breached.

"You're shorter than Mysterion," Kenny said gleefully.

Kyle expected Stan to roll his eyes and scoff, or possibly cross the threshold to give Kenny a playful smack, but to his surprise, Stan's lips pursed. "We're talking about Mysterion again?"

Kenny sobered. "Uh...yeah?"

Stan's eyes locked on Kyle's. "You okay?"

"Again, yes," Kyle said. Kenny pointed to himself and nodded at Stan as if to say,  _I asked, too._ He didn't say anything further, though, and Kyle was glad that Kenny had a sixth sense for when Kyle didn't want him to divulge information. Stan would only worry more if he knew Kyle had encountered Mysterion again. 

What was it Jimmy had said?  _Once is chance. Twice is coincidence. Thrice is a pattern._ And Mysterion had asked for his help. Maybe he'd sought Kyle out intentionally after all.

"Kyle, don't go crazy over this, okay?" Stan pulled off his red-and-blue beanie and scratched his head, tousling his stick-straight hair. As soon as his hand dropped, any volume he'd mussed into his hair flattened. "I know how you get sometimes...like you want to do all this research and get to the bottom of every puzzle. If you never see this guy again, it's not the worst thing."

Annoyance flared. Kyle crossed his arms. "What do you mean?"

Stan sighed and lowered his briefcase onto the floor in the hallway, dropping his hat on top of it. He shrugged off his jacket. "Don't go looking for trouble just so you can meet a vigilante. I know you're curious about him, and if anyone ever needed to be reminded that 'curiosity killed the cat,' it's you."

Kyle sputtered in protest, but he couldn't rely on Kenny to follow his lead on this point. Practically on cue, Kenny turned to him, all laughter gone from his expression.

"Don't go looking for trouble," he echoed. Kyle met his hardened look with one of his own. "A little research never hurt anybody," Kenny continued, "but if things look rough, don't put yourself at risk."

"Thank you, both of you, for your stellar babysitting." Kyle threw his hands up. "When have I ever put myself at risk over a little curiosity?"

"Three weeks ago, with the muggers," Stan said, guilt shaking in his voice.

"A week-and-a-half ago at the expo," Kenny added. Kyle groaned loudly, feeling almost like a teenager again—not that it was so long ago—and knowing that he wasn't winning this fight. Kenny leaned closer, bumping their shoulders together. "But, hey, Stan and I are here for you. If you need our help with your new project, just let us know."

"New project?" Stan repeated, dropping his jacket over his briefcase, too. Under its added weight, the briefcase flopped onto its side, thudding against the floor heavy with paperwork.

"Kyle's doing a little follow-up research on that arsonist from the expo," Kenny said smoothly, talking over Stan's attempt to interject disapproval. "The paper's torn between its obligation to report and the risk of inspiring further antics or spotlight-seekers. Nothing to be published, just some behind-the-scenes digging."

It was a good cover story, and spun so quickly Kyle practically gaped. The thought occurred to him:  _Kenny might just be the smartest person_ I  _know._

Stan finally crossed the threshold and sprawled out on the floor in front of Kyle and Kenny, the apex of their triangle. "I hate to break it to you, dude, but if you want to know more about the Coon, there's only one person I can think of who might know anything."

Kyle's whole face flushed with fury. "Over. My dead. Body."


	18. Chapter 18

Mysterion was depending on him for help, information, but seeking out Cartman, even if it were the easiest solution, was out of the question for Kyle. He would only speak to him if absolutely necessary, and Kyle was willing to put in a lot more legwork to avoid reaching "absolutely necessary."

The next morning, he called the police to follow up on the expo. The arsonist hadn't been caught, though the police had a description of him based on a number of eyewitness accounts that matched up. Kyle scribbled down the notes: a mask that resembled a rodent's face and a red cape over a black-and-white, penguin-looking suit; overweight; Caucasian; rasping voice. It more or less aligned with Kyle's fuzzy memories. The police had no further activity they could concretely connect to this individual, and he hadn't been sighted again since the expo. Kyle thanked the contact and hung up.

"Any updates?" Jimmy asked from across their desks. When Kyle looked up to answer, he saw that most of the bullpen had gone still.

"Nothing, really...no further crimes, which is good, but also no suspects. I think there were too many panicked and injured attendees. It was probably an easy scene to flee." Kyle tapped his pen to his memo pad, then spun the pad around and held it out. "Clyde, could you take a look at this description and let me know if it matches what you saw?"

Token took the memo pad and handed it over, and Clyde scanned the notes. "Yeah, man, it definitely does. One thing, though. The Coon had claws."

"The...excuse me?" Token asked haltingly. Clyde winced.

"No, man, that's what he called himself. You know I wouldn't...anyway, he had, like, silver hooks on his fingers. I don't know if they were costume claws or what, but I definitely saw them." He handed the memo back down the table to Kyle, who scribbled  _silver claws_ at the end of the description. "Also, the raspy voice wasn't real. He was definitely putting it on, like a bad Batman impression."

"Is there such thing as a good Batman impression?" Craig's monotone dipped into the conversation. "Someone who can do the chain smoker voice and  _not_ sound like a total douche?"

"Yes," Kyle said, but he didn't elaborate when Craig's dark eyes slid over in his direction.

"Mysterion," Clyde clarified for him. Kyle braced himself for a suggestive eyebrow waggle, but Clyde's lips didn't so much as quirk upwards.  _That's right,_ Kyle recalled,  _Clyde met him that day, too._ "Speaking of whom, Craig, you need to be on the lookout for this guy so you can take pictures."

"Pictures?" Kyle asked.

"The expo was a little more high-profile than the previous scuffles," Token said. "Other papers may be looking to cover him now if he shows up. We want to keep our advantage."

"We have our advantage," Clyde said, gesturing with both arms outstretched in Kyle's direction. Tweek bleated a staccato laugh, then hunched his shoulders in Kyle's direction as an apology. He jerked out of his seat, coffee cup in hand, and headed back towards the break room.

Kyle reviewed his notes again, though he already had the page memorized. It was only a dozen or so words, hardly any new information at all, especially for Mysterion. He hadn't been the one practically passed out for the Coon's antics at the expo; he wouldn't need the refresher like Kyle did. Kyle sighed and turned to the internet to Google any potential leads. He stared at the empty search box for a few minutes wondering exactly what he was supposed to type considering the arsonist's slur of a name.

Behind him, the elevator dinged its arrival at their floor, and Tweek called back that he'd get it. Kyle was used to sharing front door duty with Tweek, who got up frequently to get more coffee and go to the bathroom and met the delivery man as much as Kyle did in the process. He listened for Tweek's greeting and the voice or voices of guests but heard nothing. A minute later, Tweek's footsteps approached.

"K-Kyle...?" The tremor in his voice was soft, not its usual caffeine-induced shake. Kyle swiveled around in his seat. Even the spray of freckles across the bridge of Tweek's nose seemed pale, his eyebrows knitted. "Nobody was, ngh, in the elevator...it was just...full of these, ack, flyers."

In his hands was a piece of printer paper, and he jerked his arm away from himself as if it were on fire. Kyle took it. It looked like some kind of ransom note, with mismatched letters cut from magazines and newspapers, but was visibly a scan.

"There were more of these?" he asked.

"Yeah! Gah! It was like somebody opened the elevator, threw a stack of them, ngh, in there, and left."

Kyle looked down to read the message. His breath caught in his throat.

_**Denver's Greatest Hero is no match for Denver's Greatest Villain.** _

_**C**_ _**haos is coming.** _


	19. Chapter 19

Stan knew something was wrong the minute he walked in the door.

Maybe it was the fact that the aroma of dinner didn't greet him when he walked into the apartment; Kyle was more like his mother than he realized, nagging Stan to eat more and always foisting heaping plates of vegetables and lean proteins on him before he had a chance even to take off his jacket. Maybe it was the fact that Kyle was sitting quietly on the couch, hands folded and dangling down between his knees as he leaned forward, eyes fixed on the coffee table. 

But, no, Stan thought, what really told him something was wrong was that Kenny was sitting on the couch next to Kyle—on the cushion, not the armrest—watching Kyle with laser focus, not so much as a twinkle in his eye.

Stan dropped his briefcase at the door. "What happened?"

Kyle started at the sound of his voice, as if he hadn't registered the door opening at all. "Nothing," he said, grabbing a piece of paper off the coffee table and cramming it into his own work bag at his feet. "Just tired from some work stuff."

"We were doing dramatic readings of some of the articles Kyle has to spell check," Kenny said, draping himself over Kyle's head to flash Stan a grin. His blond hair stuck out every which way, like he was made of static electricity, and Stan recognized his ratty crew neck sweater as one Karen had made for his birthday when they were still in high school. Kenny chuckled. "I'm cheering Ky up. If you don't laugh, you cry."

"Eight hours of there, their, and they're, but at least I've got Kenny," Kyle agreed. He wasn't as good at disguising worry as Kenny was, though, and Stan could still hear an edge in his voice.

Stan sighed. Maybe Kyle was going off about Mysterion again. Kenny didn't seem to mind talking about him, but Stan had a bone or two to pick with the guy. He'd never seen Mysterion face-to-face, but if he had the opportunity, he'd deck him.  _Stay away from Kyle!_  he fantasized shouting.  _You've already gotten him sick and injured. No more!_ It was painful to see that spark of curiosity in his best friend's eyes that Stan knew he had no ability to curb. Mysterion's name only made him think of superhero movie scenarios he didn't want to imagine, like Kyle and a tram car full of children being dangled off a bridge in a goblin-y Sophie's Choice.

"So, what's up with you?" Kenny asked, leaning even more heavily on Kyle. Kyle snorted a laugh and elbowed him off, and seeing the tension ebb from his shoulders offered Stan slight relief.

"Nothing really. Good day at work." Stan bit his lip, still watching Kyle, but when he lifted his gaze to Kenny, Stan found a reassuring smile. Whatever was bugging Kyle, Kenny was on top of it. Stan slid his hands in his pant pockets and rocked on his feet. "Great day, actually. The company won a bid on a major project...and I got picked to be an assistant."

"Nice!" Kenny held out both arms. "C'mere and high five me, dude."

"Dude, Stan, that's fantastic!" Kyle held up his hands, too, and Stan jokingly jogged past them with his hand outstretched, slapping each proffered high five in succession. "What's the project? Can you say?"

"I mean, I can't until the press release goes live next week," Stan said, "but I  _will_ , because it's you guys, and you won't tell anyone." Kyle and Kenny shook their heads rapidly in agreement. Stan laced his fingers, turned his palms away from his body, and flexed his arms, stretching out the joints in his fingers and wrists. "Okay, well, we're designing and building a new wing of premium seating suites for...Mile High."

Kenny nearly jumped out of his seat, and Kyle's jaw dropped. "Get out," Kyle said. "The Mile High Stadium?"

"You're working for the  _Broncos_?" Kenny whooped. "You lucky bastard!"

"I mean, I'm just the team assistant, so I'll be chained to the office more often than not," Stan admitted. "It's not like I'll be touring the stadium or going out to dinner with the team or anything. I won't have any design input. I'll probably just be making calls to contractors and chasing down payments and stuff so the higher-ups don't have to. Grunt work. Unpleasant grunt work. And bidding farewell to getting home before seven ever again." His cheeks hurt from holding in the grin, so he let it stretch across his face. "But I'm working for the  _Broncos_!" He pumped both fists and gave a celebratory jump. By the time he looked up, his friends were beside him, Kenny looping arms around Kyle and Stan for an entanglement somewhere between a group hug and a huddle.

"We gotta celebrate, man!" Kenny said.

"Definitely!" Kyle agreed. "We should go out to dinner or something."

"It's a little late for me tonight," Stan said, glancing at the digital clock reading on the microwave. "I'm feeling frozen pizza and Hulu."

"Hell yes," Kenny said with a sincere level of enthusiasm that made Stan laugh. Kyle's disapproving pursed lips only made it funnier.

"Tomorrow, then," Kyle said. "We don't have plans."

"Actually...I did kind of want to ask you guys a favor." The huddle disentangled, and Kenny bounced into the kitchen area to root through the freezer for pizza. He gestured to Stan to keep talking, so he did. "I'm. I'm going to be getting a...like a bonus for working on this team." Stan fought his instinct to look over at Kenny guiltily; few things ruffled Kenny's feathers, but pitying his financial status or downplaying one's success around him because of it were sure-fire ways to tick him off.

"Totally deserved," Kenny said, voice echoing in the freezer. Stan knew he meant it. "Got any plans for how you want to blow it?"

"Yeah," Stan said, fidgeting. "I was thinking we could hit Cherry Creek tomorrow."

Kyle's eyes lit up. He crossed his arms almost smugly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Stan knew Kyle would read his mind well before he said where the money was going.

"Ahh, fancy shopping center. And you want our help with this mystery purchase?" Kenny continued. He emerged from the freezer with two full-size pizzas and examined the back of their boxes. "Three-fifty," he said to Kyle, who flitted over to pre-heat the oven. To Stan, Kenny said, "We'll grab a bite because we need our strength, then Kyle and I can lift your sixty-inch flatscreen back on the bus? Or are we test driving, maybe? Taking a Challenger for a spin in the parking lot?"

Kenny put down the pizza and mimed adjusting sunglasses, one hand lazily spinning a steering wheel. Stan burst into laughter.

"Like I'd let a NASCAR fiend behind the wheel of my car," he said. Kenny waggled his eyebrows at him. "No, Kenny, I'm not getting a sports car. It's not a big purchase. Like, physically large." Stan shuffled his feet. "And, uh, it's...for Wendy."

Kenny whooped again, practically crashing into Stan in his rush to give more high fives and hugs.

"I know it's not the expected guy celebration, but I trust your opinions, and it'd mean a lot if you came with me to help me look..."

"Dude, we're totally there," Kenny said. "And then Kyle and I are treating you to dinner."

"Sounds like a plan to me," Kyle said. When Stan glanced over, he was chopping up lettuce, with tomatoes, peppers, and onions stacked neatly on the cutting board waiting to be mixed into a salad. Stan rolled his eyes.

"I'd be lost without you."

"We know," Kyle and Kenny chorused. The oven beeped, pre-heated, and twenty minutes later, life was back to normal. The aroma of dinner wafted through the apartment, and Stan and Kenny piled salad onto their plates until Kyle stopped glaring.

Good job, good friends, and a diamond picked out from an online catalog. Stan was so content he almost forgot about the paper Kyle stuffed into his bag minutes after he got home.

Almost.


	20. Chapter 20

"Stan Marsh, a Grown Up at last," Kenny said. Stan could hear the capital letters. "Gettin' married. Gosh."

"She hasn't said yes yet, you know," Stan said. Though he and Wendy had talked about it plenty, and she was so smart she probably figured out what he was planning for the next time he saw her, when she came home for Christmas.

"She will," Kyle said, falling into Kenny as the bus took a wide right turn. "Man, this driver is nuts," he muttered. "Why do we always get her?"

Kenny hummed noncommittally, smiling.

Stan opened his mouth to reply, but the bus swerved left, sending its passengers stumbling again. This time Kyle tumbled in his direction, though Kenny grabbed his arm to pull him upright before he smashed into Stan. The bus driver leaned on the horn and yelled a few shrill obscenities out the window at the SUV they were passing. When Stan looked out the window, he met the alarmed expressions of a soccer mom and three grade-school children as the bus sped by.

By the time they made it to the Cherry Creek shopping center, Stan was tired enough to want to turn around and go back. Maybe Kenny was right about the merits of test-driving a car. Having a car would make grocery shopping easier, travel more convenient...gas and insurance were big expenses, though, and even a used car would eat into the savings Stan had built up for married life.  _Public transportation it is_ , he decided.

After a few minutes consulting a directory—or, rather, Kenny and Stan defaulting to Kyle's reading of the map and following him halfway across the mall—they finally stumbled across the jewelry store Stan wanted to go to. He'd called ahead to make sure they had the ring he picked out online in the store, so when they arrived, Stan went up to the counter and spoke to an employee who redirected him to the salesperson he'd talked to on the phone. Kenny and Kyle wandered around the store behind him while Stan waited at the counter. Kyle peered into the glass cases with mild disinterest, and Kenny followed his lead, not looking at anything.

When the salesperson returned with the ring, Stan beckoned Kyle and Kenny over to show them. They leaned over his hand and both made impressed noises, though Stan could tell they weren't exactly sure what they were looking at.

"It's a lovely option," the salesperson said, folding her hands on top of the glass case. "That's fourteen-karat white gold with a half-carat princess cut."

"It's...what?" Kenny said, looking up.

Stan shrugged. "I don't know, dude, it said it was the princess ring online."

"Stan, 'princess cut' is the shape of the diamond," Kyle said. Stan blinked.

"There are different shaped diamonds?" he whispered. The salesperson coughed behind him.

At her advice, Stan, Kyle, and Kenny browsed the rest of the store's inventory. It was a lot easier than looking online, to Stan's surprise; here he could see just what the ring looked like. Some were even perched on mannequin hands. Stan tried to visualize Wendy's hand with every ring.

"How about this one?" Kyle asked, pointing. Kenny and Stan huddled near him; so far none of them had spoken up about a ring yet, all, Stan knew, well out of their element. After a few additional directions about which ring in the full case Stan was supposed to be looking at, he leaned closer to check out Kyle's pick. It was fancy, kind of twisty, with a bunch of little diamonds in the band and a longer, thinner diamond in the middle. "I don't know, it looks like something Wendy would wear It's kind of..." Kyle trailed off, rubbing his chin.

"Intimidating," Kenny supplied. "Like, a lady who wears this could kill a man."

Kyle snapped his fingers. "Yes."

"Dude." Stan scrunched up his nose. "What exactly are you saying?"

Kyle and Kenny had near-identical blank expressions when they met his gaze. "That Wendy could kill a man," Kenny said.

Commentary aside, Stan had to admit that it was a nice ring. It looked classic without seeming old. Maybe not 'intimidating,' but powerful. He could totally see it on Wendy's finger.

When Stan called the salesperson back over, she rattled off karats and prongs and cut ("Mar-kee?" Kenny echoed. "Like the sign?" Kyle elbowed him). He held it carefully in his fingers, tilting it back and forth, trying to picture the moment. Was this the kind of ring a girl was sure to say 'yes' to?

"Hey, Kyle," Stan said slowly, "can I ask you something?"

"What?"

Stan turned to him and held the ring out. "If I said 'Will you marry me' holding this ring, would you say yes?"

Kyle pressed his lips into a thin line. "Excuse me?"

"What? Okay, look." Stan dropped to one knee and held the ring up to Kyle, who squawked in protest. "Will you marry me?"

"Stan, please stop," Kyle said, dragging Stan up to his feet by his arm. When Stan glanced over his shoulder, he realized he'd attracted some attention from other shoppers. "It's a very nice ring, don't freak out."

"Okay, but, dude, I need to be sure. I've gotta practice!"

"Practice on Kenny," Kyle said, face colored. "What, you need a stand-in for Wendy and you immediately turn to me?"

"It's 'cause you're the smart one, Ky," Kenny said easily. "Like Wendy. You call bullshit when you see it." Stan nodded along. "We don't think you're the girl of the group."

"What do you mean 'we'?" Kyle sniffed.

"And what's so bad about me proposing to you?" Stan added, overacting his hurt to keep Kenny's humorous tone. "I'm a catch!"

"You're not my type." Kyle had clearly picked up on the levity, too, but his annoyance hadn't entirely dissipated. 

Stan scoffed and spread his arms. "Yeah, okay, Ky. What is your type, then?" Because, now that Stan thought about it, Kyle didn't really date. He might have gone out on one or two individual dates while they were in school, but Stan wouldn't really call it 'dating.' If Kyle had ever called someone his boyfriend, Stan would know.

"Blonds," Kyle said in a lofty way Stan knew was more to be contrary than honest. He reached up with one hand to fluff his dark hair in Kyle's general direction, and Kyle laughed. "Someone who always backs me up or takes my side...well, most of the time. 'Always' is a little unreasonable." Stan was the one to laugh that time, but Kyle's expression had gone thoughtful. "Someone funny, who's a good listener."

"I'm funny and a good listener," Stan said, putting his hands on his hips.

"And someone who can reach things on the top shelf at the grocery store," Kyle finished with flourish.

It was and wasn't meant to wound, and Stan knew it, but there was no way he was letting Kyle have the final word. "Okay, so you want a tall, chill blond who likes it when you boss him around. So you want to date Kenny, is what I'm hearing."

Kyle clicked his tongue against his teeth and rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. Stan decided he was the winner of their fake fight. He opened his mouth to say something that would bring Kenny into the conversation, but when he looked over, the words froze on his tongue.

Kenny was half-sprawled over the display case, arms crossed casually over an assortment of necklaces and bracelets, his head tilted as he watched Kyle. There was something almost soft in his expression. Affectionate.

Stan's brain had pulled the emergency brake on making another joke, but his mouth stuttered half a syllable of nothing anyway. Kenny's attention turned back to him, shifted for a split second—wary?—and eased into his usual laid-back smile.

 _Kenny likes Kyle._ The thought popped into Stan's head so automatically it startled him. And in fact, that quick recognition was the only thing that startled him. 

It was almost absurd to think about at face value; Kenny and Kyle were like Stan's brothers, and the three of them had been friends their whole lives. But it was also true that Kenny was always a little extra protective of Kyle (hadn't he almost picked a fight with Cartman the other week?), took his side a lot, indulged him. Draped himself over Kyle at every opportunity (Kenny was a hugger, but he definitely didn't hug Stan as much as he did Kyle). Embraced being fussed over, which Stan always assumed came from the McCormicks' not being a family of fussers. 

Was this new? Wait, were they a thing and didn't tell him yet? One of them would've spilled the beans. Did this happen when he was staying late at work? Did Kyle know?

No, Kyle was an idiot about crushes. He had no idea. Stan had seen Kyle break a dozen hearts without realizing it. 

"I think it's a nice ring, Stan," Kenny said, reaching out for it. Stan handed it to him, and Kenny turned it over in his fingers gingerly. "But you can't just get on one knee, ask Wendy to marry you, and puke all over the place."

"I haven't done that since we were kids!" He was better at controlling it now, at least.

"No, no, man, I mean, you have to say something special when you propose, you know? It's _you_ she's saying 'yes' to, not the ring. And we all know she's going to say 'yes.' So you have to think of something romantic to say to make the story interesting when you tell us and we're all totally surprised that you're engaged."

"Like what?" Stan asked. 

Kenny considered his question, then gave a thoughtful little sigh. "Okay, how about..." He got down on one knee and turned to Kyle again, who crossed his arms and glared. Kenny flashed him a grin, and a bad feeling gnawed its way into the pit of Stan's stomach.

_Kenny likes Kyle. Kenny likes Kyle. KennylikesKyle._

"Wendy," Kenny said in a goofy voice. He reached up for Kyle's hand and pried it down towards him. "People always say you never forget how it feels to fall in love for the first time, but I've got to be honest. I don't remember."

Kenny's thumb traced Kyle's hand, and Stan didn't ask to be hyper aware of everything all of a sudden, and  _how did he miss this?_

"Because I've known you my whole life," Kenny continued, "and I can't remember a time when you weren't The One."

There he was again, using capitalization people could hear. Stan sneaked a glance at Kyle, whose stiff posture had loosened, eyebrows raised with curiosity.

"And if I'm really lucky, seventy, eighty years from now, I'll be sitting in my rocker on the front porch saying, 'I can't remember a day in my long, happy life without you.'" Kenny chuckled. "And you'll be sitting in the rocker next to mine saying, 'You can't remember to put your teeth in before we go to the Country Kitchen Buffet, be quiet.'"

Kyle cracked up, and Stan would have, too, if he weren't convinced he was watching a proposal Kenny had clearly thought about before. 

"So," Kenny said, holding up the ring at last, completing the proposal pose. "How about you and me pick out some rocking chairs?"

Kyle turned to look at Stan but didn't shake off Kenny's hand. "See, Stan? You've got to say something just like that, all sweet and goofy. Kenny even got in the part about you two growing up together. Wendy'd say yes to a Ring Pop if you proposed like that."

And Stan knew he should respond, but Kyle was doing it again. He was breaking another heart without noticing, a heart that mattered, and Stan had never seen that look on Kenny's face before. He was fake smiling so hard it looked like it hurt, and when their hands came untangled, it was Kenny who pulled back first.

The salesperson interjected at the perfect moment. "So, have you decided on this one?"

_Crash!_

Stan whipped around to look out into the mall. A crowd had formed at the barrier, leaning over the railing to watch something below on the first floor. Some were shouting out, many more holding up phones.

"What's going on?" Kyle asked. Kenny sprang to his feet.

"Look," he hissed. Stan and Kyle followed his pointed finger to the floor out in the mall. Beneath other shoppers' feet were a bunch of fliers.

"What is it?" Stan asked. Kyle had gone white as a sheet.

"Chaos," Kenny answered.


	21. Chapter 21

Kyle led the way out of the store to the railing to look over below. Stan was careful to hand the ring back to the salesperson before following, not wanting to set off any alarms. He slid in next to Kyle at an empty space at the railing, Kenny on Kyle's other side. 

At first, Stan wasn't sure what he was looking at.

Below in the center of the open mall space was a fountain the size of a small pool, made of thick slabs of gleaming marble and gushing water up in a graceful arc. Standing on the edge of either side of the fountain were two people in costume. One, who had his back to Stan and the others, wore a green cape and what appeared to be a helmet fashioned from aluminum foil. The other, across the fountain and obscured slightly through the stream of water, was dressed in black and red. Aluminum Foil was scrawny, but the other guy was stocky like Cartman.

Kyle sucked in air through his teeth, making a soft whistling noise. "That's the Coon," he whispered. Kenny's grip on the railing tightened. Stan shared his sentiment, glaring down into the fountain. This was the guy who tried to set Kyle on fire?

(Well, okay, Stan knew that hadn't been his goal, but it was a damning ripple effect from the chaos that guy caused.)

"Who's the other guy?" Stan asked. He couldn't help but press his lips together in disapproval. "Mysterion?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that's not Mysterion," Kyle said, eyes trained on the costumed figures below. Stan rolled his eyes. On Kyle's other side, Kenny was watching Stan, brow furrowed, lips slightly parted. Stan wondered if his question had come out more sharply than he intended.

Below, the Coon spoke. "Chaos! You've threatened the good people of Denver for the last time!"

"That's 'Professor Chaos' to you, uh...foolish hero!" Aluminum Foil replied.

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Both were doing those awful gurgling Batman voices. The Coon and Professor Chaos? More like Douche and Turd. "What the hell is this, performance art?"

His snipe went ignored, though. Beside him, Kyle stood enraptured with the scene below. Every few seconds Stan would see his dark eyes wander around the fountain and knew innately that Kyle was seeking Mysterion. Kenny also watched the two below with uncharacteristic solemnity, tapping his index fingers against the railing like a metronome.

"You've called me out, Chaos," the Coon bellowed, spreading his arms wide and taking a step around the edge of the circular fountain. "You've threatened the people of Denver and claimed that not even their Greatest Hero—I, the Coon!" He paused, tossing his cape over his shoulder, and Stan switched hands to pinch the bridge of his nose again. His fingers were cramping. "...Could save them. That's where you're wrong."

"Professor Chaos is never, ah, wrong!"

But he sure hadn't memorized his lines, Stan thought. He let go of his nose; it was actually aching a little from pinching it too long. Other people in the mall clearly shared his disinterest, because the crowd that had gathered around them was dispersing. The Coon looked around, cheeks puffing under his mask.

"You won't get away with planting a _bomb_ in the mall, where innocent civilians are at risk!" he shouted.

 _That_ got people's attention.

"Did he just say a bomb?"

"A bomb? As in, an explosive?"

" _Omigod!_ "

Kyle leaned further over the railing. Both Kenny and Stan grabbed a patch of fabric in his jacket to tug him back. "A bomb? He's gotta be bluffing," Kyle said, straightening. As soon as his friends' hands were off him, he started inching towards the escalators. "I can't really hear from up here, tho—"

"Nnnnnope," Kenny said, wrapping his arms around Kyle and constricting him. Kyle squirmed against him in protest. "You're not going down there. Real or not, we've got a bomb threat. You're getting out of here."

"Kenny, there's no way it's real—"

Kenny heaved an aggravated sigh. "I agree, but we're not sticking around."

Kyle glared up at him from his weaponized bear hug. Kenny glared back. Stan pinched the bridge of his nose.

"All right, listen," Kenny said, eyes flickering to Stan before returning to Kyle's pursed lips. " _I'll_ go down and check it out. I'm taller and stronger than you. I won't get trampled if things go south and people start panicking. You and Stan head for the exit."

Hypocrisy became Kyle when the shoe was on the other foot, Stan thought. "Absolutely  _not_ , Kenny, it's _way_ too dangerous."

Kenny's deadpan expression would have been funny anywhere else. "I'll meet you at the bus stop, okay? I'll text when I'm out of here." Unceremoniously, he pushed Kyle into Stan's arms, and Stan automatically put Kyle in a death grip. He didn't have the height advantage Kenny did, but college football made a bulkier athlete than college basketball, plain and simple. Didn't protect his shins from Kyle's vicious kicking, but Stan could grit his teeth for the twenty minutes it would take to drag Kyle to the bus. Kenny was gone in a flash, tearing down the escalator.

That  _really_ got Kyle fighting Stan's grip.

"Wait, Kenny, come back!" he yelled. Stan thought about putting a hand over his mouth—even for Kyle, this was a new level of scene-making in public—but if his grip loosened even a pinch, he knew Kyle would spring out of his arms and follow Kenny into Bad Batman Impression hell.

Speaking of which.

"Uh—ah—w-wait!"

Stan dragged Kyle to the railing to take a peek over the side. The Coon was wailing on Chaos, who shrieked with alarm and threw his rubber-gloved hands up over his aluminum-foiled head. They looked ridiculous. If Stan had been skeptical of the veracity of a bomb threat before, watching the pathetically costumed rendition of a fat kid bullying the little guy out of his lunch money removed all sense of danger.

"C-Cut it out, Coon! Hey! Ow!"

Kyle's struggling suddenly went limp in Stan's arms. He gasped softly. Without lessening his grip, Stan let his eyes wander and quickly found what had tamed Kyle's fury. Darting out onto the other side of the fountain was a third figure, also masked, in a plain black hoodie with the hood pulled up snugly over his head. He was wearing regular jeans and boots, no costume in sight save for the black mask covering the upper part of his face, but Stan trusted Kyle's instinct. It had to be Mysterion.

"Hey!" he snarled, and the Coon froze mid-punch, Chaos sniffling on the floor beneath him. Stan refused to admit he too felt a little shiver at Mysterion's gravelly shout. Kyle leaned up against his arms to get a better look.

"Who the hell are you?" the Coon asked, his put-on voice sounding even more foolish against Mysterion's.

Even from the landing, Stan could see Mysterion's cocky smirk. "The symbol this city needs," he said coolly.

Kyle's grip on Stan's forearm tightened.

The Coon squawked in fury, dropping Chaos altogether. " _You're_ Mysterion? Where are your underpants, assho—"

In a blink, Mysterion had rounded the fountain and scooped up Chaos. Surprise, alarm, and rage flashed across the Coon's face in quick succession, Stan only able to follow from the way his jaw dropped, then snapped back into a menacing baring of teeth. Mysterion darted away, putting distance between himself, with Chaos still cradled in his arms, and the Coon. Mysterion ducked his head down towards Chaos, but Stan couldn't hear anything.

"Bullying play-actors, are we?" Mysterion asked, his voice booming out across the mall. The crowd had returned, cell phones out and recording, snapping pictures. "You hire a community theater volunteer to perform, accuse him of planting a bomb that doesn't exist, and beat him up to make yourself look good?" Mysterion scoffed. "You're no hero to these people."

"You wouldn't know a hero if he punched your lights out!" the Coon shrieked, hurling himself at Mysterion.

Stan's grip had slacked, he was so invested in the train wreck unfurling in front of him. Kyle broke out of his grip and grabbed the railing, leaning over too far for comfort. "Mysterion, look out!"

Mysterion passed off Chaos into the arms of a spectator in the crowd, sidestepped neatly, and stuck out one leg and both arms. The Coon tripped over his outstretched foot, and Mysterion spun his arms to spot him, expertly flipping the Coon over and flat onto his back. The crowd whooped, and Mysterion jumped back. Beside Stan, Kyle let out a sigh of relief. Mysterion edged towards the fountain and looked up, straight up at them. Or rather, Stan supposed, straight up at Kyle.

Who, Stan scowled to see, had turned rather shy at the attention. He fidgeted, smiling down from the railing. Mysterion's expression twitched, but he gave Kyle a brief nod, then turned on his heel and ran into the crowd, his plain hoodie disappearing in the sea of people quickly.

"I knew he'd come," Kyle whispered.

"Boy, I wonder if  _Kenny's_ okay," Stan snapped. Kyle jolted and turned around to face him. At least, Stan thought, he had the decency to look distressed on Kenny's behalf.

"Kenny!" Kyle spun around and leaned over the railing again. "Is he down there? Do you see him?"

Stan's blood simmered down from its boil. "He can't be hard to miss. He's in that bright-ass orange jacket." 

"Do you think he saw Mysterion?" Kyle asked, excitement creeping into his voice as he scanned the lower level. Stan swallowed. Kyle pulled out his cell phone and narrated as he texted. "'You...okay? We're...still...upstairs. Meet...us...back...here?'" He looked up at Stan. "We don't have to evacuate. We can go in and get your ring."

"I don't want that ring," Stan said. He couldn't buy it. Every time he looked at it, all he'd be able to see would be the light in Kenny's eyes when he held it up to Kyle and the light in Kyle's eyes when he saw Mysterion. The light that wasn't on at the thought of picking out rocking chairs. "I...I don't know what I want."

Kyle's expression softened. "Hey, don't worry about it, dude. It's a big decision. You can take all the time you need." He put a hand on Stan's shoulder and gave him an affectionate shake.

"Hey!" Kenny bounded up to them from the direction of the elevators. "Why didn't you guys bail?" he asked, though his heart didn't seem to be in the scold, especially when Kyle abandoned Stan to meet Kenny halfway between them.

"Kenny!" Kyle grabbed his forearms and hesitated, but Kenny took the invitation to scoop him into a hug. "Are you okay?"

"Fit as a fiddle," Kenny said, pulling back and slipping his hands into his pockets. His jacket was unzipped as if he'd taken it off and put it back on, Stan thought. It might have been warmer down in the throngs of people, though, especially when wearing a parka a few weeks early. It was the only jacket Kenny owned, to Stan's knowledge. "I couldn't get close enough to see much of anything, though...crowd was too big. Sorry, Ky."

"Don't be sorry, I'm just glad everything's okay." Kyle grabbed his forearms again and squeezed, and Kenny chuckled. "Kenny!" Kyle's eyes lit up. "Mysterion showed up!"

"Yes, and we're all very excited," Stan said sourly. Kenny glanced at him curiously, but his attention returned to Kyle when he shook Kenny's arms.

"Did you see him?" Kyle asked. Stan could see Kenny biting the inside of his cheek to hide a smile.

"Sorry, Kyle, bad visibility. How were the briefs today? Strong, virile? You good to go for the next, like, month?"

Kyle's whole attitude did a one-eighty, and he raised both fists to pound on Kenny's chest in protest, rattling off a litany of rebuttals, his face redder than his hair. Kenny just laughed and took it, burying his nose in the fuzzy upturned flap of Kyle's worn ushanka and nuzzling against him.

The last time Stan's heart hurt this badly was when Wendy got her acceptance letter to her dream school on the other side of the country where he couldn't follow. But back then, it had only been a fleeting hurt, healed with every drop of the shower of kisses Wendy planted on his face to assure him that leaving Stan behind was the hardest part of going.

This was like that moment all over again, but with no kisses, no assurance, an absolute drought. Kenny in the desert, Kyle sitting on the edge of a well without realizing because he never turned to look. The bucket was right in his hands, too, and Kenny's lips were dry and cracked, throat coated in sand. And given the choice between the two, the bucket or its holder, Kenny would choose the holder, only to find him a mirage.


	22. Chapter 22

Mysterion was a real, honest-to-applesauce hero. Of this, Butters was absolutely certain. He was a protector of the innocent, a defender of the weak, a symbol of justice.

And he could read minds.

Or had magic powers.

Or something.

Because when he'd first slipped between Butters and Eric, he'd growled lowly, "Cartman, what do you think you're doing?" And, boy, Eric had sure been surprised at that.

Eric hadn't told a single person aside from Butters about his true identity. He'd assured Butters of this himself before the time of their performance. And right after, when Eric had made a distraction in the mall and dragged them both out before the security fellas could show up and haul them away, he'd sworn up and down that the hitting and kicking was just his getting into the acting. 

Butters' sore ribs and swollen lip were glad that Denver had a hero like Mysterion to balance out the Coon.

Mysterion knew the Coon's true face. He knew Butters, too, even though Butters was quite positive that he hadn't told a soul his was the true identity of Professor Chaos. Butters could still hear Mysterion's gentle whisper in his ear. "Leo, you okay?" His own stuttered affirmation wasn't suitable for a supervillain, even a pretend one.

But who'd want to be a supervillain, real or pretend, with superheroes like Mysterion around?

These were Butters' thoughts as he sat around a public picnic table with Eric, Kyle, Stan, and Kenny for lunch. October weather was truly upon them, the day cold and overcast, but no snow had touched down in Denver yet. Kyle had written up the story at the mall, which Butters had read as soon as the paper came out. Kyle was a very good writer, and now that he'd met Mysterion in person, Butters marveled at how his pal had captured the superhero's style and coolness. He was also relieved that Kyle had written up that Professor Chaos was a performer and not a villain.

And, if Butters were being completely honest, the fact that the Coon went unnamed, only referred to as 'the arsonist from the flower expo,' was pretty delightful, too.

(Eric assured him he'd tried to put out those fires. Butters wanted to believe him, but Kyle had been so sick, and now he knew how good Mysterion was. Maybe Eric was embellishing a little. He did that sometimes.)

Eric had also seen the paper and was less delighted. Which he was informing Kyle of now, his speech peppered with words Butters had never heard before but could tell weren't nice. Stan snapped back at Eric when he said these words at Kyle but was quiet when they were about Mysterion. Kyle got mad when the words were about him and madder when they were about Mysterion. Kenny didn't say anything but finally banged both fists on the tabletop. The whole table just about jumped out of their skin. Kenny's hands trembled there. On either side of him, Kyle and Stan covered each of his hands with one of their own, a reaction so automatic Butters' heart warmed.

"So, who is he, Kyle?" Eric pressed. Kyle glowered at him, and Butters wished he could send Eric a message without saying anything:  _Just leave him be._ Butters bet Kyle'd feel better once he had lunch, and maybe a hug. Kenny could sure use a hug, too, and now that Butters was thinking of it, Stan seemed a little down in the dumps. Maybe a group hug. But maybe the other fellas wouldn't want to hug Eric right now.

Butters' ribs were with them.

"Your boyfriend, Mysterion," Eric continued. "You're the only one he seems to wanna talk to. Or make eyes at across a friggin' crime scene, or whatever."

Kyle's face flushed, and Butters decided to intercede on his behalf with a warning "Eric..." that came out too squeaky. Butters lamented not being a stronger friend with a stronger voice.

"So it's your responsibility to unmask him," Eric said.

Stan looked up at that. "Unmask...Mysterion?"

"If you unmask Mysterion," Kenny said through gritted teeth, "he won't be a symbol of justice or goodness for the city anymore. He'll just be a guy in a costume."

"He  _is_ just a guy in a costume, Kenny," Eric said.

"No, he isn't," Kyle said firmly, and Butters found himself nodding. "Whoever he is behind the mask, Mysterion has decided to put his strength and kindness to work helping others. He puts himself at risk every time he puts on his mask, but he takes on danger to protect people. He's a  _hero_. If he feels more comfortable doing good with a mask on, I'm not going to unmask him."

Boy, Butters thought, Kyle was just born to write. Even when they were kids, he'd always had a way with words, a smartness and a sort of truth nobody else in South Park talked with. Sometimes Butters wasn't even sure what Kyle was talking about, he was so smart, but he got what Kyle was saying now. It was better than Butters could have said it in a million years with a million dictionaries.

Kenny thought so, too. Butters could tell. Kenny was smart, but he couldn't always afford books and things when they were kids. He always hung on Kyle's every word when Kyle got all smart-talking. He was doing it right now, looking over at Kyle with a soft smile and gentle eyes, back to his old Kenny self. Butters sighed in relief.

Eric scoffed. "Kyle, could you be Mysterion's bitch any harder? No. No, you couldn't. You're a superhero's girlfriend, Kyle, right down to the red hair. And you know what happens to superheroes' girlfriends?" Eric leaned over the table. "They get big, fat targets put on their backs. They get threatened. They get kidnapped. They get thrown off bridges and stuffed into refrigerators." Eric blinked and backed down into his seat again. "Actually, what am I saying? Keep doing what you're doing, Kyle."

Alarm spiked in Butters' chest. "Eric, that's a terrible thing to say! Well, gee, you don't think some bad guy would hurt Kyle to get to Mysterion?"

"I do think it," Eric said lightly, folding his hands over his tummy.

"I think so, too," Stan said quietly. Butters wrung his hands. Kyle's and Kenny's heads both whipped in Stan's direction. He was staring at his sandwich and soda, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. "Sorry, Kyle," he said. "I just...that's twice you've seen that fat whack job."

"I certainly hope you don't mean  _the Coon_ , Stan," Eric fumed.

"He's clearly looking to one-up Mysterion," Stan said. Butters couldn't refute it, though he'd never say so to Eric, who insisted it was the other way around. "The fire, a bomb threat...not a real bomb. That time. But." Stan hesitated. "I don't want you to get hurt," he finished. Butters found himself nodding along to that, too.

"Nothing's going to happen to me," Kyle said, his voice tender when he looked across the table at Stan. "I promise, I'm not putting myself at any additional risk. Jimmy told me to be careful, too. I don't want to worry my friends."

"Well, golly, Kyle," Butters said, unable to stop himself, "our worryin' comes second. First of all, you should want to be okay. If you're okay, we're okay!"

"Butters is right," Stan said. Butters glowed. "We just want you to be safe, dude."

Kyle smiled.

"Uh, is that the royal 'we,' Stan?" Eric asked. "Because I wasn't consulted before you started speaking for the table."

"Shut up, Cartman."

Butters eased back into his seat, content that the table was back to normal. Kenny had been kind of quiet at the end, there, though. Butters sneaked a look at him.

Kenny's face had gone completely white. While Stan's hand had drifted off of his somewhere along the line, Kyle's hand was still covering Kenny's other fist, which had relaxed but now tightened again around Kyle's fingers. His eyes hadn't left Eric's face.

"K...Kenny?" Butters asked. "You okay?"

Kyle's attention shifted over and he squeezed Kenny's hand. "Kenny, it's fine. Nothing bad is going to happen to me."

Kenny blinked like he was coming out from under a magic spell and turned to face Kyle. "No," he agreed, "of course not." Slowly, hesitantly, Kenny returned Kyle's little smile. On his other side, Stan seemed to be getting back to his old self, too, his shoulders straightening, and he took a healthy bite of his sandwich.

Butters was just about to dig into his peanut butter and jelly when Kenny spoke again.

"I won't let anything happen to you."

Kyle chuckled in a fuzzy way Butters thought meant he was really happy.

"Ooh, look out, Mysterion," Eric muttered into the double cheeseburger clenched in one hand. Fries poked through the fingers of his other fist. "The poor kid's puttin' the moves on your girl."

Kyle and Stan both said some not-very-nice words in response to that, which Butters figured was only fair because Eric was just so terrible at reading the mood. But mostly Butters was watching Kenny, whose cheeks seemed a little pinker, even for cold weather, and who looked away from Kyle awfully quickly at Eric's suggestion.

Oh, dear, Butters thought. He really wished he had a stronger voice, one that could tell Eric to be quiet and nice and stop hurting Kenny's feelings. Kyle and Stan, well, they just bounced right back, but Kenny didn't usually get involved, and when he did, he didn't get all sad or embarrassed like this. But if Butters did tell Eric to be quiet and nice, what if he realized he could hurt Kenny's feelings like this? He'd do it all the time. Eric was funny like that.

So Butters didn't raise his voice at all. He tapped his foot against Kenny's under the table, and when Kenny looked up, Butters gave him a big smile. A few seconds passed where Kenny looked kind of confused, then he grinned back like his usual self.

Quiet and nice.


	23. Chapter 23

 

It was nearly eight o'clock when Stan got in, and his empty stomach moaned in protest, but he was still in a good mood. Kyle had kept his hand over Kenny's comfortingly the whole time they were out for lunch, Cartman's snide remarks be damned, and had paid much more attention to Kenny after he shared his worry. Stan had to remind himself not to put the cart before the horse; Kyle spoke gently to him as well when he'd expressed concern, because that's what friends did. Good friends like Kyle. He shouldn't read too much into it.

He did, of course, but he shouldn't. 

Stan had never put much thought into what Kenny wanted out of life. Maybe it was because Kenny never spoke up about it, but Stan knew he was just telling himself that to soften the blow that he'd never really  _asked_. He couldn't think of a single time when he engaged Kenny in a discussion about his degree, his work, or what he really wanted in life, aside from the ever-important joint decision of what video game console the boys were all investing in. Sure, he'd asked things like,  _What are you going to study?_ or  _How was your interview?_ but Stan never pushed beyond Kenny's invariably one-word answers,  _Dunno_ and  _Good_. Kyle would talk for days, but Kenny was quiet, more of a listener than a talker, and Stan didn't shift gears to accommodate communicating with a different person. He didn't need to ask follow-up questions with Kyle, so he didn't bother asking them with Kenny, and maybe he should have.

Maybe that was why Kenny liked Kyle so much, Stan thought, because Kyle never stopped asking questions, even about the smallest details. It was kind of a pain, but it also made a guy feel sort of special, like his stories and thoughts were so interesting they warranted requests for more. Stan bet Kyle knew things about Kenny that he'd never know because he never asked. Things long forgotten, left far behind in the sands of childhood.

Kyle was alone when Stan got in. He was on the couch and didn't even look up from his laptop where he was typing furiously, a full mug on a coaster on the coffee table in front of him. Stan couldn't see any steam, and the only indication that Kyle was drinking tea was the string dangling over the side of the cup, the teabag itself long sunk to the bottom. He wondered how long the neglected cup had sat there.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," Kyle replied without looking up. "Meatloaf in the fridge."

"You're a godsend," Stan groaned, opening the fridge in pursuit of dinner and finding a plastic-wrapped plate ready-made. Kyle was the best mom. "Is Kenny at work or at school?"

"Work. His night classes are Mondays and Wednesdays." Another thing Stan would probably know if he ever bothered asking. "You know, I..." Kyle paused, his fingers ceasing their rapid typing. Stan unwrapped the plate—a sensible slab of meatloaf, mashed potatoes, and what looked like steamed broccoli and snap peas. He returned to the fridge for the rest of the meatloaf to add to the healthy portion Kyle had passive-aggressively allotted him. "I, um," Kyle said again, and Stan jerked back from the fridge guiltily, the Pyrex pan of meatloaf in hand. Kyle closed his laptop and turned towards Stan. He pulled his leg up under himself on the couch. Stan shut the fridge door and set the pan down next to his plate.

"You okay?" Stan asked.

"Yeah, I..." Kyle hesitated. "Are you?"

Stan supposed he hadn't been particularly subtle in his annoyance since that day at Cherry Creek. He got a knife to cut a thicker slab of meatloaf to add to his plate. "Yeah. Dude, I know, the late hours are a pain, but—"

"No, I mean...are you mad at me?" 

Stan sliced through the tender meatloaf in one motion, probably could've done it with a butter knife, but when his knife clicked against the bottom of the pan, he didn't pull the slab out right away. "Why would I be mad at you?" He forced himself to maintain eye contact.

"I don't know," Kyle said, and the sureness in his voice rankled Stan. "After lunch today, I figured it might've stemmed from worry, but you've seemed kind of pissed at me even when we're not talking about Mysterion."

 _When is_ that _, exactly, Kyle?_ Stan physically bit his tongue to keep the retort down. "Nah, trust your gut. I was just worried about Mysterion getting you into trouble."

"He won't," Kyle said. "I mean, it's not like I go out looking for trouble. You saw. I certainly didn't have any warning for what happened at the mall."

"That's even worse," Stan said. "You're not even trying to get into trouble, and it keeps happening to you. Maybe Mysterion's already done his damage."

"Mysterion hasn't done any damage," Kyle protested. "He hasn't done anything wrong! Why do you hate him so much?"

Stan's grip on the knife handle tightened, and he forced himself to relax, then let go altogether. He rested his hands on the edge of the counter and took a long, slow breath through his nose and out his mouth. When he met Kyle's eyes again, Kyle's expression had turned defiant. It took a surprising amount of the fire out of Stan.

"Kyle, stop chasing him," he whispered. Kyle pulled his leg back out from underneath him and planted both feet flat on the floor.

"I just got through telling you I'm not looking for trouble!"

" _K_ _yle_." Stan gritted his teeth. "I'm not talking about you looking for trouble. I'm saying...stop chasing some fantasy."

The shadows on Kyle's face deepened. "I'm not _fantasizing_ about Mysterion, Stan."

"Yes, you are. Maybe not in, like, a fantasy boyfriend way,"—though Stan had his misgivings about that as well—"but you've definitely built up this shining, heroic  _symbol_ that you've transposed onto a real person who has a real name you don't know and a real face you've never seen." His voice rose with every word. Kyle stood up, fists clenched by his sides. "Kyle, you are so fixated on 'Mysterion,'"—here Stan added air quotations with his fingers for emphasis—"so  _obsessed_ with this fantasy hero you've embellished in your mind, that you can't even see what's right in front of you."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Kyle snapped, and Stan's heart sank to the bottom of his stomach, like the teabag Kyle probably forgot about half an hour ago.

"Stop looking for some vigilante to save you from your boring life," he said, his voice softer, more tired. Stan felt like he'd aged a decade in the last ten minutes. "You don't need him."

Kyle trembled, opening and closing his mouth, the occasional syllable stuttering out. He must have been beyond furious if he couldn't even get out a comeback.

Stan grasped onto the last embers of his own anger before they flickered down to sad coals. "I'm going out for dinner. Don't really feel like meatloaf." He stalked from the kitchen area without putting anything away. "You probably burned it anyway. We both know it's not your strong suit."

He jammed his hat down on his head and shut the door harder behind him than necessary, leaving Kyle's shaking fists and bit lip and wounded brown eyes alone. His stomach growled in protest, and even though he knew it wouldn't be a match for Kyle's homemade-from-scratch, Stan headed out to a nearby family-style restaurant for meatloaf.


	24. Chapter 24

Tweek was dreading this night. The temperature had plummeted in a matter of hours; if this morning had been crisp like September, now it was bitterly cold like January. That meant coats. 

Last winter, Craig had bundled Tweek up every day in his own sweatshirts and jackets and coats. Tweek didn't mind the cold and hated that awkward sheen of sweat that always seemed to accompany wearing anything lined with fleece. He thought he looked puffy and stupid in coats.

"Nah," Craig had told him, pulling the flaps of his favorite chullo hat down over Tweek's ears. "You look cute."

Tweek wasn't sure if Craig would bundle him up again tomorrow morning, and, truth be told, he didn't know what he wanted to happen. He hated coats but liked being wrapped in something that smelled like Craig. He didn't mind the cold but was sure he'd freeze to death if Craig didn't pull him into his coat.

Bitter cold also meant that Craig's sleeves stayed rolled down, which meant his tattoos disappeared. Tweek knew that Craig liked this. He was happier when it was colder and he could pull his sleeves down over the intricate black lines that wound up his forearms and—as only Tweek, his tattoo artist, and maybe Clyde knew—his upper arms, his shoulder blades, his collar bone, and other body parts Tweek hadn't seen. It was so much ink, and so beautifully done, Tweek wasn't sure why Craig hid it. Why risk all those potentially-infected needles and hide the finished product?

"Hieroglyphs?" Tweek had guessed the first time he'd seen them. Craig tried to push his sleeves down, but Tweek grabbed his wrists and pushed his sleeves back up. He traced the black markings with his fingertips, hyper aware of Craig's forearm twitching beneath them. "Are you really into Egypt, or something?"

"Inca, not Egyptian," Craig had said. When Tweek looked up questioningly, he added, "Peru."

But now it was cold, so Craig's tattoos would hibernate until summer.

Leaning against the car, waiting for the gas tank to fill, Tweek sucked back coffee and tried to be subtle about admiring Craig's arms, sleeved or no, as he leaned on the other side of the gas cap. It became easier to disguise his attention when Craig extended his arm and pointed. "Hey, check it out."

The blip of a tattoo winked out from under his cuff. Tweek tore his eyes away from Craig's arm to follow his arm to the building across the street. A figure stood on its roof. No, not standing, he was running, a cape billowing out behind him...

"It'sMysterion _gah_!" A tremor ran through Tweek, and some of his coffee splashed up out of his travel mug and dripped over his fingers. He spun around and yanked the gas pump out of his car, hooking it back up with a  _clang_.

Craig watched impassively. "What are you doing?"

"We have to follow him!" Tweek looked over his shoulder. Mysterion leapt across the gap between buildings and fell gracefully onto the next roof. In a second, he was running again. "Getinthecar _ngh_!"

"Why?" Craig asked, though he obediently sank into the passenger side while Tweek skidded around the bumper and struggled with the driver's side door.

"Because!" Tweek yelled. He pushed the button to start the engine and threw the car into drive, peeling out of the gas station. A car behind him leaned on the horn as he merged lanes. "Gah! I can't watch him and drive. Keep a lookout!"

"But why are we chasing him?" Craig asked, clicking his seatbelt. Tweek pulled his on with one hand and fought with the clicker until Craig reached over and did it for him. "He's going left at the light."

Tweek signaled left. "Because it's Mysterion! We could find something outtohelpKyle! Ngh! What if we see his face?"

Mysterion was still hopping from roof to roof, scaling drainpipes like a squirrel and tumbling somersaults for soft landings. Tweek could feel his blood pressure rising with every jump and tried to focus on the road.

"Right at the next street," Craig said blankly, though Tweek took it as a good sign that he was complying. "So, you want to protect Kyle by unmasking the guy who's saved his life at least twice that we know of?"

"Just don't losehim _gah_!"

Tweek could feel Craig's attention on him, all too familiar with his soul-penetrating stare. He knew the giant in the passenger's seat well enough to know he wouldn't back down first, either.

"Craig, please, where is he?" Tweek asked, eyes darting around.

"This is important to you." It wasn't a question. Tweek sputtered. Craig's eyes didn't leave him. "Left."

Tweek sighed and took the turn. Craig stretched past him to reach into the backseat. "Whatareyou _ngh_ doing?"

Craig pulled back into his seat with his camera in his hands, its strap around his neck. "Keep going straight," he said, reaching up to press a button that activated the sunroof. It creaked in protest, hardly ever having been used, and cold air blew into the car. A tremor ran through Tweek. Probably the coffee.

"Craig, what are you  _doing, ack!"_ The question became a squawk of alarm as Craig undid his seatbelt and adjusted his seat back to the farthest distance from the dashboard. He unzipped his jacket, shrugged it off, and dropped it over Tweek's lap, then stood up. Craig stuck his head and shoulders through the sunroof, then eased his camera up, too.

"Put it on if you're cold. Right," he called back down. Tweek could feel his breathing picking up, his eyes darting from the road in front of him to Craig's torso above him. Craig was balancing himself with one arm braced against the edge of the sunroof, but he shifted and lifted his camera to his eye.

"Oh,  _Jesus_ , Craig, this is so dangerous!" Tweek turned right as carefully as he could with Craig standing beside him. Once he'd finished the turn, he pried Craig's jacket on with one hand, the other more or less keeping the wheel straight.

"It was your idea," Craig said. Jacket on, Tweek's fingers gripped the steering wheel more tightly.

"It wasn't my idea to get you sticking out of the sunroof without your seatbelt on!"

Craig's lips twitched. "Don't worry, Tweek, I won't fall. He's stopping on the left."

"Gah!" Tweek pulled over and parked. "Where are we?"

Craig slid back down into his seat at met Tweek's eyes head-on. His cheeks were pink from cold, bangs sticking out under his hat windblown. He licked his lips.

"Tweek," he said softly, "this is Kyle's apartment building."


	25. Chapter 25

Kyle wanted to hit something. Or throw something. Or break something.

What the hell was Stan's problem? Why was he being such a jackass? Kyle was  _not_ fantasizing about Mysterion. Sure, he wrote and spoke highly of him, but Mysterion was a hero. He did heroic things. Like  _saving Kyle's life_. Multiple times. One minute, Stan was saying he was glad Kyle was safe, the next ripping into the reason he was safe, one minute sweetly worried for him, the next a straight-up jerk.

Kyle inhaled sharply through his nose and huffed angry breaths out through his mouth. He paced around the kitchen. He grabbed Stan's abandoned plate and banged the edge of it against the trash can, the meatloaf, potatoes, and veggies dropping in with a  _thunk_. He put the plate in the sink a little harder than necessary, but it didn't break. Maybe he could take his anger out on the streaks of potato and meatloaf crumbs left over. No. Stan could wash his own damn dishes.

He grabbed the Pyrex pan next, more than half-full with leftover meatloaf, Stan's brick-size slab still in it. Kyle's fingers quivered on the edges of the pan, and he stalked over to the trash, raising it to dump.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Kyle froze and whirled around. Off of the living room area was a glass sliding door that led out to a small balcony. It didn't get much use; eight months of the year, it was too cold, and even in good weather, it only offered a view of the other brick apartment building behind theirs, which effectively blocked both sunlight and the breeze. Stan had installed curtain rods above the sliding doors when they moved in, and they had somebody's mom's old drapes up, but through the sliver of window visible between the drapes, Kyle could see someone standing on their balcony.

Mysterion.

The Pyrex pan clacked loudly enough to echo when Kyle set it down on the counter and all but ran to the door, unlocking it. By the time he slid it open, Mysterion had moved back, perched precariously on the thick metal railing that boxed the balcony in. His cape hung over him like a shadow, and Kyle cursed the back-to-back apartment buildings that impeded light and visibility. Even the lamplight pouring out from inside the apartment wasn't enough to see more than a vague outline of Mysterion's jaw.

"Mysterion," Kyle said, and in light of the fight he'd just had with Stan, he felt embarrassment at how breathy his voice sounded. Reverent, like some lame fanboy.

"Kyle," Mysterion growled back. Kyle rested his hands on the edge of the sliding door, leaning his weight against it.

"What are you doing here?" Kyle asked, wishing he weren't wearing an oversized pair of lounge pants and a sweatshirt he'd borrowed after coming home and finding it hanging on Kenny's doorknob.

"I was in the neighborhood." Mysterion seemed to think this response clever and smirked to himself. Kyle's hand slid an inch or two down the edge of the door frame. "I came to deliver a message."

"A message...for me?"

Mysterion nodded, and his mouth set in a hard line. Kyle took a deep breath.

"Stop being a pain in the ass," Mysterion said. Kyle started.

"Wh—"

"Stop getting into trouble," Mysterion continued gruffly. Kyle hunched his shoulders. "I have enough on my plate without having to worry constantly over whether you're safe."

Kyle blinked once, twice, slowly. "You worry about me constantly?"

Mysterion's eyes were laser-focused on Kyle's. "Shut up."

Maybe Stan was right after all about Kyle's having built up an image of Mysterion in his head. He'd certainly never imagined the vigilante stumbling to keep up his cool persona. Then again, Kyle considered, pushing aside any thoughts of Stan, Mysterion had blurted out and conceded that he worried about Kyle all the time. Was thinking about him all the time. Him, specially.

"Stick to safe stories for your columns, Kyle," Mysterion said. "Don't write about me again. Avoid crowds as much as lonely alleys. I've drawn too much attention to you. You have a target on your back."

Ice settled in Kyle's stomach. "What?"

"I have an enemy. One that I know of, for sure. He can't keep up with me, but I wouldn't put it past him to take advantage of the fact that I've protected you before."

Kyle swallowed. "The Coon?"

Mysterion nodded.

"I'm not afraid of him," Kyle said. "Really. I've seen him twice now. He's a buffoon."

"That's what makes him so dangerous. He focuses on the result and not the little details. His plans go haywire, and people get swept up in his messes."

"Well, he certainly has a flair for showboating. If he's trying to lure you out, he'll make a big deal of himself. You'll see him coming."

"Kyle," Mysterion said, gravelly voice sharp as a blade. Kyle leaned back in towards the warmth of his apartment. "I'm telling you to be careful. I can't always be there to protect you. You have to help me out here."

"I don't need you to protect me." Based on experience, this may not have been the most truthful comeback Kyle could've flung, but he'd had enough of people telling him what he was and wasn't capable of for one night. "Clearly it's a burden on you, so you can stop worrying about having to rescue me."

Now it was Mysterion who flinched. "No."

"No, really, it's fine. I can take care of myself." Kyle crossed his arms, straightening. "You can go about your other superhero business and forget about—"

" _Never._ " 

The force behind Mysterion's response caught Kyle off-guard. Beneath his hood, behind his mask, Mysterion's eyes blazed. He hardly even blinked matching Kyle's stare.  _Why do you care so much?_ lingered on Kyle's tongue. He opened his mouth.  _Why am I so important to you?_

"Why did you become Mysterion?" he asked instead. Mysterion's gaze remained level.

"What do you mean?" His guard was up again, back to cool and composed.

"What made you want to put on a cape and be a superhero? If you wanted to fight crime, why not become a cop or something?"

"Most policemen are good people," Mysterion said, "but they're limited by their own laws. I can't do all that I have to in a uniform."

"All that you have to?" Kyle pressed, but Mysterion remained silent. Fleetingly, Kyle feared the vigilante would leave, but then Mysterion shifted his weight from where he crouched, seeming to make himself a little more comfortable. Kyle opened his mouth again, tongue clicking softly against his teeth. "Want to know what I think?"

"What do you think?" Mysterion asked. It was almost conversational, aside from the low, rough voice he put on.

"I think under that mask, you're just a regular guy," Kyle said softly. "You're a good guy, and you do the right thing. I bet you're always there for your friends and family when they need you. But you still feel powerless. You're just a man."

Mysterion was still as a statue. Kyle unfolded his arms and stepped out onto the balcony, the faux wood cold beneath his bare feet. The balcony was so small, he could reach out and touch Mysterion if he wanted. Kyle paused, waiting for Mysterion to draw back or even flee. He didn't so much as tense. Kyle took another tentative step.  _Mother May I._

"Mysterion makes you stronger, powerful in a way your day-to-day self isn't. It's an escape..." Kyle swallowed. "From your boring life."

"My life isn't boring," Mysterion said. Then, gently: "You make sure of that."

It was another two steps to the railing, and then Kyle's arms were around Mysterion's shoulders, his head tilted, the edge of Mysterion's hood brushing against his curls as he leaned up and pressed their lips together. Kyle closed his eyes and heard Mysterion inhale through his nose, a sharp sound of surprise. Felt him tense for a split second. 

Then he sighed against Kyle's lips and tilted his head, too, returning Kyle's hard, inexperienced kiss with one softer and sweeter. Kyle felt the rough material of Mysterion's glove against his cheek, Mysterion's thumb tracing his jaw. Every ounce of frustration Kyle had built up in the last night—maybe in the last lifetime—disappeared in the tenderness of Mysterion's touch. It wasn't at all what he'd expected. Fine, Stan, maybe he  _had_ imagined this once or twice, but Kyle had always thought Mysterion would kiss harder, more intensely.

No, that wasn't the right word. This  _was_ an intense kiss. Gentle, a whisper of mouth against mouth, yet burning. Mysterion was a good kisser.

Not that Kyle had a whole lot of experience. He'd kissed two guys in college, neither a long-term boyfriend, and neither particularly enjoyable. One slobbered all over him, and the other clacked his teeth against Kyle's so hard it hurt. Wait. Three guys. That one North Park kid he met when he was a senior in high school. After their third date...

Mysterion tilted his head in the opposite direction and Kyle followed his lead, their lips parting for a short breath before meeting again. Mysterion's fingers threaded in Kyle's hair, somehow not pulling at the tangles.

Four. Kyle had kissed four guys before tonight.

The day before that third date, he'd been jumpy as hell. Wasn't that the three-date rule, he'd thought, that you either kissed if things went well or just said goodnight if they didn't? He'd fretted and fretted. Was he supposed to use tongue? Did he breathe through his nose? Should keep his eyes open? He'd paced and paced on the landing in the back stairwell of South Park High, not ready to go out the door and get into his car. Kenny watched him from where he sat on the stairs.

"I know first kisses aren't always as magical as the movies make them look," Kyle was saying, "but I don't want to mess up. I mean, what if—"

Then Kenny was standing in front of him, cupping his face in both his hands. He kissed Kyle gently, chastely, right on the mouth. Kyle barely had time to reciprocate, moving totally on instinct, before Kenny pulled back.

"There," he'd said. "Now you'll always look back and know that you first kiss was, A, with a good kisser..." He waggled his eyebrows at Kyle, who stuttered in response. Kenny's smile softened. "And, B, with someone who loves you."

Mysterion pulled back just slightly, like he was reluctant to break the kiss over something as foolish as breathing. Kyle shivered against him, eyes still closed. Mysterion's breath warmed his lips.

" _Kenny_ ," he whispered.

Mysterion froze against him and jerked away, pulling out of Kyle's arms and falling towards the balcony. Kyle's eyes flew open. Mysterion landed on his feet, barely, and staggered back.

Realizing too late what he'd done, Kyle gasped, his heart pounding. "I'm sorry," he said. "I—I don't know why I said that, I just..." Mysterion stared at him wide-eyed. Kyle waved his hands in front of himself frantically. "Kenny is my...he's one of my best friends, he's my roommate, I..." Why was he saying that? More importantly, why on earth had he said Kenny's name? Stupid, idiot, fool! "I'm sorry," Kyle said again, weakly, lowering his hands.

The alarm in Mysterion's expression and posture dimmed. Alarm. Now that he was coming down from his panic, Kyle noticed that Mysterion didn't seem at all hurt at having Kyle say someone else's name when they kissed. Mysterion's lack of hurt gave Kyle a pang of hurt himself, but then he figured he wasn't in the least bit entitled to it.

"Don't be," Mysterion said, voice wavering to maintain the rasp. Kyle shivered again. "You'd better get inside. It's cold out here." Mysterion's eyes lingered on Kyle's sweatshirt, _Kenny's_ sweatshirt, then he offered a wide grin and turned on his heel, cape billowing behind him.

"Wait," Kyle called out, alarmed. "Where are you—?"

But Mysterion climbed onto the railing and jumped to the balcony of the apartment next door, then the next, then jumped up and grabbed the railing bars of the balcony of the next apartment up. He climbed the building balcony by balcony until his shadowy form disappeared from Kyle's view.


	26. Chapter 26

Tweek watched Craig examine the digital display on the back of his camera, clicking through the pictures he took. He didn't dare lean closer. Craig protected his pictures, only shared what he thought was good. They were all good to Tweek.

Finally Craig turned the display to Tweek so he could see. It was clearly Mysterion, a shadowed figure leaping through the air; for taking the pictures out of the sunroof of a moving vehicle, Craig had snapped pictures Tweek didn't think most pros could manage. Yet...

"Even zoom and level-correcting can't get a picture of his face," Craig said, practically reading Tweek's mind. "No incriminating shots."

Tweek deflated back into the driver's seat. "So we didn't help Kyle at all."

"Well, he'll have pictures to put with his next article," Craig said, turning the display back towards himself. "Tweek, I don't think we should tell people Mysterion came here."

Tweek's breath caught in his throat; it had been a long time since Craig addressed him by name. "Wh...what do you, ngh, mean?"

"That we followed Mysterion to Kyle's apartment." Craig looked up carefully, eyes dark. Tweek bit his lip.

"Why do you think he's here?" he whispered. "To...to see Kyle?"

Craig tilted his head back against the headrest. He breathed in deeply through his nose, held it a second, and exhaled. "Maybe."

Returning his eyes to the still road, Tweek swallowed. "What are y-you really, ngh, thinking?" He could feel Craig's gaze on him. "You can trust me, you know," he added quietly, fingers twitching for the ignition, to just get off this street and drive. Craig probably thought he'd just wasted all of that time for both of them.

A wet click beside him, Craig's tongue against the roof of his mouth. Tweek didn't look over, afraid of meeting that blank, intimidating stare he used to be able to read.

"Hmm..." Craig lowered his camera into his lap and looked straight out the windshield, too. "D'ya think under the mask Mysterion is just a chill dude? Someone nice and boring we'd get along with?"

It was hard to imagine Mysterion being "nice and boring," but Tweek was distracted by how nice a word  _we_ was in Craig's mouth. He was about to respond when a flash of movement caught his eye.

"Mysterion,  _gah_!" he yelped, jamming his finger onto the ignition button. The engine roared to life, and Tweek yanked down his seatbelt. He just had his hands on the wheel, ten and two, when Craig laid a hand over his already-white knuckles.

"Let him go," Craig said, lips barely moving around his murmur. His hand was so warm and dry, unlike Tweek's clammy claws. Craig didn't feel anything. Tweek wished he didn't feel things, either.

He threw on his signal with one hand and shifted into drive with the other, peeling off the curb and in pursuit of Mysterion.

Craig didn't navigate for him this time. Tweek was on his own, speeding and jerking to a stop at red lights, eyes trying to follow the road and Mysterion's cape billowing above. Every once in a while, Craig clicked his tongue, but he said nothing, and he didn't get up to take pictures.

Which was good, of course.

Finally, Mysterion scampered down an alley where Tweek couldn't follow. It was too narrow for his short, squat, sensible car. Tweek heaved a frustrated sigh, running his trembling fingers through his hair. He dug through until his fingers found each other at his nape, interlacing as he bowed his head down onto the steering wheel. Craig sucked in a short breath.

"Tweek, it's okay that we lost him. It's not that great an area, anyway, maybe we should head out..."

Grunting, Tweek undid his seatbelt, turned off the car, and all but kicked his door open. Whirling around to slam the door shut, he just caught a flash of surprise in Craig's dark eyes. By the time Tweek had rounded the car, Craig was slamming his door shut, too.

"Tweek." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't sure, either. Craig hovered over him, barely an inch between his chest and Tweek's back. "Listen, let's go home."

"Don't want to." Tweek reached a chain link fence, and heaved a sigh. "Give me a boost," he said. Craig didn't reply, so Tweek reached up and twisted his fingers into the chains, trying to fit his toe into one and push up. It didn't work, and he scrabbled back down the fence. Craig's arms looped under his armpits, pulling him up. "Help me, you big jerk,  _gah!_ " Tweek snapped.

"Help you get yourself killed over Mysterion?" Craig asked, his voice puffs of breath in Tweek's hair. "Who are you, Kyle?"

"At least Kyle's giant boyfriend would help him," Tweek said, jabbing his elbow back into Craig's ribs. Craig groaned in pain and dropped him. "If Kyle said 'boost me,' Kenny'd ask 'how high?'"

"Kenny isn't Kyle's boyfriend." Craig made another grab for Tweek as he rattled the chain fence again. "And if Kyle were trying to climb into a small, dark, closed-off alleyway in a bad part of town, I seriously doubt Kenny would be cool with it."

"Well, you're my boyfriend, sobecoolwithitand _ngh_ boost!"

A crash sounded in the alleyway, and they both jumped. Craig slipped his hand over Tweek's mouth, the other arm curling around his waist to pull him back and duck down. More banging and crashing, and then Tweek saw a body come hurling out from a side street, thudding against the ground on the other side of the fence. He leaned forward slightly for a better view and felt Craig's arms tightening around him.

Mysterion followed the body out of the side-street but landed on his feet. "What business do you have harassing single mothers?" he growled. Tweek couldn't help a little shiver. He'd never seen Mysterion in person, but he could hear why Kyle was so entranced. "Those moms who walk their kids home from school? They have enough shit to deal with without your comments, lurking in the shadows. They're working to give their kids a shot at a better life, you scum."

Another voice gurgled back, and Tweek realized belatedly it was probably the guy Mysterion just wrecked. Craig pulled him close again. It was almost a hug. Craig didn't hug.

"We need to get out of here," Craig breathed into his ear. Tweek swallowed. If he answered,  _Yeah, I know_ , he didn't trust his voice not to spike in volume, or for his stupid nervous tics to draw attention. He nodded against Craig's hand over his mouth and felt Craig relax a little behind him.

A third voice started screaming on the other side of the fence, Mysterion whirled around, and then a series of bangs echoed off the walls. Tweek was sure he shrieked in alarm because Craig's hand clamped down over his mouth again, then spun him around. Tweek buried his face in Craig's sweatshirt and shook. Footsteps thundered, another bang, a crash, and a sickening thud. Retreating footsteps barreling in the other direction, thank goodness.

When silence finally fell, Tweek leaned forward. His stomach lurched as the alley came into better view. There was blood splattered against the wall of the next building over, and pooling on the cracked pavement. There was a body slumped on the ground maybe thirty feet from where Tweek and Craig were crouched. A torn cape, brown boots still against the ground...

Tweek gulped in air by the lungful, his fingers tightening in Craig's sweatshirt. His throat was sore, and his whole face hurt. It wasn't until Craig pulled him back and whispered, "Shh, Tweek," that he realized he was crying.

"Is he, _hngh_...is he dead?" he whispered into the safety of blue cotton. Craig hesitated. Tweek wrapped his arms around Craig's neck and pulled himself closer. "Mysterion...Jesus  _Christ_ , Craig...!"

He felt Craig swallow. "Th-that..." he stuttered. Craig never stuttered. Tweek peeked up at him and saw an expression he'd never once seen on Craig's face. His dark eyes were wide, mouth agape, face white. Tweek looked over his shoulder, following his gaze down the alley again.

The blood was receding. Drops slipping down the wall, creeping back towards the body. Crawling up the pavement toward its source, as if a vacuum were pulling it back. Tweek's stomach turned over on itself, and he whimpered, gagging on reflex. Craig tugged his sleeve to pull him back, but then the blood was gone.

And Mysterion was standing up.

"Holy shit," Tweek hissed. "Holy shit, Jesus Christ, holyJesusshitChrist _gah!_ "

"Yeah," Craig said. "Number Five is alive."


	27. Chapter 27

Stan's stomach was full, but his heart certainly wasn't. He didn't care how stupid it sounded; every time he fought with Kyle, there was a hole in him until they made up. Dragging his feet along, he bypassed the elevator for the stairs. 

"Hey!" 

Stan looked over his shoulder to see Kenny jogging in from the front door. In spite of the weight on his shoulders, Stan felt his lips curling upwards. Kenny's eyes were bright, and even though his smile was already glowing, the bounce in his gait suggested he was holding back the voltage he could generate.

"Hey yourself, dude. What's with the goofy grin?"

"Oh, you know." Kenny shrugged, upped the voltage for a split second, then toned it back down. "Something...really good happened tonight, is all." He bounced on the balls of his feet, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Did you get to work on a cool car, or something?" Stan guessed as they began to climb the stairs.

" _Better_ ," Kenny said, bounding ahead of Stan. "Dude, if you're going to be a slowpoke, take the elevator. Kyle's waiting for us."

Stan's sneakers turned to lead. Mid-flight, he hesitated, his thighs trembling in annoyance at having been interrupted mid-step. At the first landing, Kenny realized Stan wasn't keeping pace and stopped. The megawatt smile dimmed.

"Stan?"

Stan hesitated. Maybe he should tell Kenny that he'd had a fight with Kyle, at least forewarn him. But then he'd have to explain why. He looked over his shoulder. The stairwell was empty. He and Kenny were alone.

"Kenny, I know," he said.

Kenny's head tilted slightly, the way a confused puppy's might. "Know what?" His voice was almost too light, like he already knew what Stan was about to say. Sometimes Stan thought Kenny might be able to read minds. He'd suggested it to Kyle once, but Kyle just told him his wasn't a difficult mind to read.

"Your secret," Stan clarified. Looking up the stairwell was like looking at a photograph, Kenny went so still. After a full, long breath, Kenny licked his lips.

"My secret?" he parroted, eyebrows ascending. Stan could practically see the walls Kenny was building up around himself, brick by brick. Steel bars, even. Titanium.

"I figured it out at Cherry Creek when we went," Stan said, rushing through his words. He took another step up, closing the gap between them. Kenny had returned to statuesque stillness. "I...I should have figured it out sooner."

"Are you mad?" Kenny whispered.

Stan started. "No, dude. Why would I be mad?"

"I-I-I didn't wan't you to know. I didn't want you to..." Cracks appeared in Kenny's facade; as quickly as he'd build the walls, Stan could see them coming down. Slapped up in a hurry, not securely. "But, Stan, you don't understand. This is important to me. It's something I've wanted for...for a long time, and it's something worth fighting for. To me."

Stan's heart sank. Something Kenny had wanted for a long time. "Kenny, I don't care. I want you to be happy. I just...don't want you to get hurt, you know?"

Kenny nodded miserably. Stan climbed to the landing, and they moved up the second flight of stairs together.

"You can always talk to me, too, if you need someone," Stan said, jamming his hands into his pockets. "I'm...you know, I'm rooting for you."

"Really?" Kenny asked. His voice was small, in a way Kenny's voice never was. He might be quieter than Kyle, a better listener than talker, but Kenny didn't mumble or whisper. Even with his parka pulled up tight around his face, his voice was only muffled through the fabric, not because he himself was speaking without conviction.

"Really," Stan said, with twice the conviction to make up for it. "I mean, I've seen a lot of guys try to...well, I mean." He looked away awkwardly. Kenny didn't need to hear about all the guys from college who'd slobbered all over Kyle. If Kyle was oblivious to their existence, Kenny didn't need to know either. "I think...I mean, I can trust you with Kyle, you know? Not that it isn't a two-way street, dude, I mean, you're my best friend, too, I..."

"No, I understand," Kenny said. "I'm...I'm glad you trust me." He smiled down at the rug. "I was afraid you wouldn't."

"Don't be dumb, dude. Of course I trust you." They reached the third flight of stairs, Kenny's pace finally slowed to match Stan's. Kenny and his stupid long legs, Stan thought with some affection. It felt good to have this off his chest. Poor Kenny, not wanting to say anything, thinking Stan would be mad. The little smile he was wearing now might not have been the megawatt grin before, but it warmed Stan's heart even more to know he'd put it there. That he'd been able to tell his friend he was in his corner.

"What gave me away?" Kenny asked. "If you don't mind my asking."

"Your proposal," Stan admitted. Kenny glanced over, brow furrowed. "Just...I don't know, the way you looked at Kyle, and all those things you said. You know, dude, about not remembering a time when he wasn't the one and all." Stan couldn't capitalize the way Kenny could. He'd have to work on it before he proposed to Wendy.

Stan realized belatedly that Kenny was no longer beside him and turned to look over his shoulder at Kenny a few steps behind.

"Ah. My proposal..." If Stan didn't know better, he'd say Kenny was blushing. It had to be the lights. Then Kenny shuffled his feet a little bit on the step and scratched his chin, and Stan realized that he hadn't been wrong. Kenny McCormick, blushing.  _Well_ , Stan thought,  _I'll be damned._

"Yeah. Gave yourself away, dude." Stan smiled. "Something you've wanted for a long time...Kenny, man, how long have you felt this way about Kyle?"

Now Kenny's face was really burning. It was kind of funny. The self-professed lady-killer of South Park, smitten like a schoolboy.

"A long time," Kenny said, almost petulantly, not making eye contact. He didn't want to go into detail, huh?

"Come on, Kenny, one more flight of stairs and we'll be at our apartment. I gotta hear this story before we see Kyle."

Kenny fidgeted. Climbed the next few steps to be by Stan's side. Fidgeted again, tried to keep climbing. Stan didn't budge, smirking a little up at him.

Finally Kenny sighed and stopped. "Fine. Fine, fine. I'll tell you." He turned and crossed his arms, leaning against the railing. "You remember...that time I got sick?"

On its own, it might sound foolish; who didn't get sick? Kenny missed as much school as any other kid growing up, mostly for actual health-related reasons, doctor's note and all. But Stan remembered that one time, that scare. Kenny was in the hospital for weeks. Stan had only gone in to see him once, the sight of tubes and needles too much for him; Kenny had seemed so small and weak there on the hospital bed. Cartman was running around South Park allegedly raising money to help with Kenny's treatment, but he pocketed the money for Shakey's Pizza instead. Kyle beat the shit out of him when he found out.

Kyle hadn't left Kenny's side. In the beginning, he'd go and sit with Kenny after school, but then it got bad. So bad that Sheila Broflovski agreed when Kyle asked to skip school and stay with Kenny instead.

Then Kenny flatlined.

Stayed dead for ten minutes.

And woke up.

Specialists studied him for weeks, months, deemed it a miracle. There was an article in the paper. Kenny recovered, came back stronger than before, and was back to school and play in a matter of days. Father Maxi had been delighted to walk into Church that Sunday morning and find almost the entire population of South Park crammed in the pews, standing room only under a prism of stained glass saints and lambs.

"I knew I was dying," Kenny said, looking down the stairwell. Stan stayed a landing below, rooted to the spot. "Don't worry, dude, I'm not mad or anything. Kyle brought your cards and things." Kenny's eyes crinkled fleetingly. "I knew how much you loved me."

Stan swallowed. He and Kenny had never talked about this before. He hadn't realized he'd needed that absolution until this moment. 

"Kyle stayed with me every day," Kenny continued, his voice faraway. "He told me all these stories of what the South Park nuts were up to outside of the hospital. He talked about what we were going to do when I got better. I never once saw him cry, and he never acted like he pitied me. It was like a cold, like I was going to get better with a little sleep and chicken soup. But I knew I was dying." Kenny paused. Stan couldn't read his expression and didn't want to interject. "Kyle made me feel better, even when I felt like puking my guts up. Even when it hurt to blink and breathe. Then one afternoon, he went to the bathroom for two minutes, and I could feel it happening, but. I didn't want to be alone." Kenny raked his hands through his hair, sending it spiking in every direction. "Selfish little bastard, wasn't I? Too scared to die alone, didn't think twice about what it would feel like for Kyle."

Stan's breath caught in his throat. "Kyle was _there_?" he whispered. "When you...?"

"The minute he came back and took my hand," Kenny spat, "I let go. I remember beeps and machines whirring...and Kyle asking me not to go, to just hang on. He started crying, but I couldn't stop dying."

Kenny's chest heaved. It occurred to Stan that he'd probably never said this aloud before to anyone. Bottling it up for fifteen years?

_Fifteen years._

_Kenny._

Kenny swallowed. "The next thing I remember, I was back. You know the way you start out of a dream? Like, a nightmare. When you just jolt awake?" Stan nodded. "It was like that. Everybody was yelling, there were all these people in the room, and there was this long, low beep."

The flatline on the monitor, Stan added in his mind.

"Then it started beeping faster and better. It was my heart." A little smile found its way to Kenny's face. "It was Kyle. I'm convinced. He asked me not to leave, and then, after weeks of wasting away in a hospital bed, my heart starting beating better than ever. I came back for Kyle. Because there was no way in hell I was dying when I could be alive with him."

"Dude," Stan said. "Literally whatever I say to Wendy when I propose is going to sound hella lame compared to, like, how you talk about Kyle in casual conversation."

Kenny laughed at that, shoulders at ease. "Whatever you say to Wendy is going to come from your heart, Stan, and she's going to love it. At least you have the guts to say it to her face."

Stan grinned wickedly at that. "Dude."

It took Kenny a second before wariness hinted in his expression. "What?"

"You need help getting your guts together?" Stan slapped both hands against his own chest and spread his arms wide. "I'm your guts guy!"


	28. Chapter 28

Kyle had never much noticed how loud the lock on the door to their apartment was, but now he was relieved that he could hear it from his room even with the door only open a crack. He snapped his laptop shut with one hand, clicked his lamp off with the other, and jumped into bed. If it were Stan coming home, he'd be one of three things: cold, distant, still feeling the fight (unlikely, since Stan caved pretty quickly); drunk enough to make more noise than usual but not enough to be hungover in the morning (hadn't really happened since they lived in the dorms); or mopey and looking to make up (almost definitely, and Kyle wasn't in the mood right now). If it were Kenny...

Kyle pulled his comforter up over his head and squirmed into a little ball. Nope. No way was he facing Kenny tonight.

The universe had apparently decided his saying the wrong name mid-makeout deserved punishment, because Kyle could hear both Stan's and Kenny's voices in the living room. He rolled onto his side to face the wall and listened to their footsteps approaching.

A light knock on his door. "Ky?" Kenny asked. The door creaked a little, opening partway but not fully, and the floorboards shifted under Kenny's feet. "Kyle?" With more alarm. Maybe pretending to be asleep at nine o'clock wasn't the best method of avoiding them. The bed dipped under Kenny's weight, and then a hand touched gently between his shoulder blades. Kenny rubbed a single, small circle into Kyle's back. "Hey," he whispered, "you okay?"

Kyle made what he hoped was a 'you-disturbed-my-sleep' groan and shifted, trying to shake Kenny's hand from burning through his blanket and tee shirt right down to his skin.

"Kyle? It's only..." Kenny dragged out the last syllable while he, presumably, checked his phone. "Nine-oh-seven." Kyle could hear him pocketing his phone, fabric shuffling. "You feeling okay, or just being an old man?"

As much as Kyle wanted to say he was sick, he knew that the lie wouldn't hustle Kenny out of his room. It would only make him clingier.

No, that wasn't fair, Kyle thought with a pang of shame. Kenny wasn't clingy, just prone to being a caregiver. Kyle was the one sticking detracting adjectives on him. Trying to undo the damage of thinking about him—about that soft, secret kiss Kenny probably forgot years ago—when he should've appreciated the person in front of him.

Kyle's eyes opened then. It took a second to adjust to the dark, and then he could make out the faint striped pattern of his comforter's underbelly. Stan's voice echoed in his mind:  _You are so fixated on 'Mysterion,' so_ obsessed  _with this fantasy hero you've embellished in your mind, that you can't even see what's right in front of you._ Hadn't Kyle himself said to Mysterion, "You're just a man"? But he wasn't just a man. But he was. Cape or not, heroics or not, Mysterion was a man.

And so, Kyle thought with a swallow as he felt the warm hand on his back rub a second circle, was Kenny.

"Old man," he grumbled, worming away. Kenny chuckled and let his hand drop. "Just tired. Long day."

"Okay, well, as long as you're feeling all right." Kyle burned with embarrassment at how well he knew the sound of Kenny's smile in his voice. "See you in the A.M."

"Mm-hmm," Kyle mumbled back. The weight disappeared from the edge of his bed, the footsteps retreated, the door clicked shut, and then Kyle was wide awake.

Why? Why would that memory come back after all this time, at the worst possible moment? Kenny certainly hadn't popped into his mind when he kissed What's-His-Face from North Park, or the two guys in college, when it would make sense for Kyle to think about a good kiss instead of the present disappointments—no. No, no, no, he wasn't thinking about how good or bad or whatever Kenny was at kissing. (It was not bad or whatever.) ( _Damn it_.) But  _why_ would it come to mind in the middle of a  _good_ kiss, the best kiss Kyle had ever had before, when he had no reason to think back on someone else? There was nothing to lament, no reason to want it to be Kenny he had his arms around instead.

Because he didn't want it to be Kenny. Who was his friend, whom he'd know his whole life, who was a good listener and good in a crisis situation and often the person Kyle liked being around best in a completely and totally platonic way. Who only ever "hit on him" in that way close friends do when they're being goofy.

Because he wanted it to be Mysterion. Fine, Stan, shut up, he'd thought about it. And thought about it and thought about it. And wanted strong arms to hold him and keep him safe, and dark blue eyes to look at him like he was something special and important, and for someone he'd thought so cool and experienced to kiss him with all the tenderness of a first love.

Hours later, as the first hints of sunlight slipped through Kyle's blinds and warmed his desk, Kyle was still awake. More awake than ever, Mysterion's kiss tingling on his lips, Kenny's handprint burning on his skin.


	29. Chapter 29

Tweek hadn't slept a wink. He tossed and turned, and every time he thought his body's biological need for sleep would win out, blood-spattered bricks painted the backs of his eyelids. Finally he stumbled out of bed and down the hall, past Craig's room, to the bathroom. He dry-heaved a few times, but nothing came up. Tweek rested his forehead—clammy, sweaty—against the toilet seat, which wasn't as cool against his skin as he'd hoped.

He flushed anyway, since he'd been staring down into his reflection and breathing on the water all that time. When he opened the door, Craig was sitting on the floor across from him.

"Gah! Oh, Jesus, did I wake you up? I'm sorry, man."

"You didn't wake me up." Craig's eyes were dark in the daylight and bright as the moon at night. "You okay?"

"I'm fine,  _ngh_." Tweek shuffled his feet, then trained his eyes on the laminate floor, following the little diamonds in its very seventies, butterscotch pattern. "I wasn't even sick."

Great, now Craig was going to think he was some sort of liar looking for attention, pretending to be sick for pity, making sound effects without any of the bile to back it up. Tweek didn't think he was stupid or a bad person, but he knew he was annoying and difficult and fifty shades of shit Craig didn't need to put up with. It was crap like this, dry heaving in the middle of the night, that probably kept Craig at bay. Less boyfriend than babysitter. Jesus Christ.

"Good, you weren't sick," Craig said without any inflection, "but are you okay?"

 _Don't start shaking,_ Tweek willed his limbs, but his body never listened to him before, so why would it now? He trembled, a little at first, then a lot, feeling a fresh sheen of sweat on his forehead, palms moist with disappointment.  _Don't, please don't,_ he prayed. A stifled grunt slipped past his lips, followed by an unmistakable, " _Gah!_ " at full volume. God, why didn't his parents ever take him to a doctor or put him on something? 

 _Why didn't you call the doctor yourself?_ his mind pointed out, following his body's example and turning against him.  _You're an adult, aren't you?_

"It happened," Craig said, like he was answering a question. Tweek shook harder, feeling the tic in his eye picking up, too. "It was like watching a phoenix rise from the ashes."

Mysterion. So Craig had been up thinking about him, too. Tweek's breathing slowed.

"We don't have any proof," Craig continued, "and even though we both saw it, I don't think it'd do us any good to mention it. We don't even know what it means yet."

Tweek nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right. It'd be way too much pressure if we dropped that bomb without backup."

Craig nodded. "Try to get some sleep, Tweek."

Craig never said things like  _you'll feel better in the morning_ , never made presumptions like that. He knew Tweek better than anybody, even Tweek's own parents; he probably knew how futile it was to claim Tweek would be better in the morning.

Sleep did come after that, though. At least, for Tweek. When his alarm went off and he got up for his first cup of coffee, Craig was already sitting on the barstool by the counter. There were no circles under his eyes or creases around his mouth the way there were for Tweek when he didn't sleep well. And sometimes when he did. But Tweek still got the sense that he'd slept more than Craig had.

A manila folder sat on the counter in front of Craig, sandwiched between a half-eaten English muffin and a half-empty glass of water. The coffee pot was already on and brewing. Tweek eyed the folder as he poured himself a cup. Craig watched him drink his coffee, and he watched Craig literally push his breakfast around his plate without eating it. Craig had on slacks and a long-sleeved black shirt. It took Tweek a few minutes to get dressed, and when he came back out to the kitchen, Craig had already poured the rest of the coffee into two travel mugs and put on his jacket and hat. He held both mugs, the folder tucked under his arm, while Tweek struggled into his shoes.

"Cold out," Craig said when Tweek went for the door. "Need a coat."

"I'm fine," Tweek said, turning. Craig's other jacket was already laid out over the back of the couch. He grabbed it but didn't put it on, and that must have been good enough for Craig, because he followed Tweek out of the apartment.

They usually opened the office, so it was more than a little alarming when Craig pressed the elevator button and it stayed lit. Someone else had unlocked the door.

"Jimmy, you think?" Craig asked before Tweek could hit full panic. "Maybe Token." The most assiduous of their staff, even though Tweek and Craig averaged the most hours at their desks per week. Every so often one of them opened instead. Tweek nodded.

The lights were off when they reached their floor, but came to life when the motion detectors picked up Tweek and Craig coming in. They exchanged a look before heading for the bullpen, their footsteps loud even against the taupe Berber carpeting.

Kyle sat alone at his desk, computer monitor in sleep mode. His arms were crossed, and he was still. When Tweek set down his travel mug on his desk beside him, Kyle gasped softly, starting into motion. Tweek looked over in time to see his eyes fly open.

"Y-You didn't sleep here, did you?" Tweek asked, draping Craig's jacket over the back of his chair. Kyle rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

"No," he said. "I was up early and couldn't get back to sleep, so I came in." He rested his elbows on his desk and blearily looked at his keyboard and the notebook open in front of him. "Can't sleep at home, can't work in the office." He scoffed lightly at himself and rubbed his eyes again. Tweek picked up his travel mug and offered it, which at least made Kyle smile. "No, thanks."

"I didn't even have a sip, ngh," Tweek said. "It's not contaminated."

Kyle shook his head. "Thanks, Tweek, but I'm not a coffee drinker."

Craig had finished taking off his winter wear and getting set up over at his desk, and he rounded Tweek and handed the manila folder over to Kyle. It was in that moment, taking in Kyle's perplexed acceptance of the folder, that Tweek realized what its contents must be.

Sure enough, when Kyle opened it, Tweek caught sight of one of Craig's shots of Mysterion from the night before, printed out on glossy paper. Kyle said nothing, staring down at it. He flipped it up, and two other shots were printed out beneath it. He looked at each one for a long time, then let them fall flat again and closed the folder. When he looked up at Craig, there was something sad about his eyes. Kyle didn't say a word.

"We lost sight of him," Craig said. "This was all we could get. Sorry."

"Thank you," Kyle said, or maybe he didn't even say it. Maybe Tweek just read his lips, because they barely moved, and supplied the sound of his voice. Craig didn't respond, not even a nod, and turned away. He passed Tweek again to get to his desk, his sleeve brushing Tweek's collar. Kyle put the folder away.

They didn't mention it again for the rest of the day. Mysterion's name didn't come up once.

 


	30. Chapter 30

Cartman had been turning plans over in his mind for days, but he still didn't think he had quite a good enough idea to do Mysterion in once and for all. It was bad enough that he'd stolen the fans and adoration from the Coon, had stolen the title of Denver's Greatest Superhero undeservedly, but for Mysterion to discover his true identity immediately? There was a hint of shame, but then Cartman decided that Mysterion must have been studying the Coon for months to come to that conclusion. The Coon was not a hero so easily unmasked.

Mysterion was no hero. He was a sham, just in it for the glory. Oh, Mysterion was good. He knew how to work the system. His whole goodie two-shoes act was for tricking people into thinking he was so great, making them want to talk about him even more. People like Kyle, who thought they were so smart but couldn't see the truth an inch from their faces. 

People like Butters, whose cheeks puffed out indignantly now. "Eric, I don't understand why you don't think Mysterion and the Coon can be friends. You're both here to help people, aren't'cha?"

"Because, Butters!" Cartman spat. " _The Coon_ and  _Mysterion_ "—emphasis on the correct order of the unholy partnership—"can't both be Denver's Greatest Superhero."

"But you could be Denver's Greatest Superhero _es_ ," Butters said, tugging at the hem of his shirt. "Like the Justice League or the Avengers, except two of you."

"That's not how it works, Butters, don't you know anything? When there are two, there's always an A and a B. Nobody thinks Robin is Gotham's co-hero, he's just Batman's sidekick." Cartman shook his head. "And the Coon works alone. He has no need for a sidekick."

Butters hesitated, and Cartman clenched his fists.

"Don't you agree?" he asked through gritted teeth.

"Well, gee, Eric." Butters stumbled over his words. "I think Mysterion's a nice fella." He stopped wringing the bottom of his shirt and tilted his head thoughtfully. "Dressing up as Professor Chaos sure is fun and all, but I don't want to hurt anybody. Especially a nice guy like Mysterion. I mean, I'm just playin' at being a villain, you know? Mysterion's a real hero. I don't want to take up his time when he could be out savin' people."

Red flooded Cartman's vision. "He's not! A! Hero!" he yelled, slamming one fist into the other open palm, punctuating every word with a _smack_ he wished were landing in Mysterion's smug face. "God, Butters, don't you see how he's playing you?"

"Well, no, I don't," Butters said softly, clasping his hands. "But, Eric...sometimes I think I see _you_ doing it."

Cartman reeled backwards. "You think _I'm_ playing you? Me? Your friend?  _The Coon?_ "

"Well, you did kind of wail on me that day at the mall," Butters said, fidgeting and looking down at his twitchy fingers. Cartman opened his mouth to protest when Butters continued, "And Mysterion, he didn't have to help me, but he did. He scooped me up 'fore your play-acting got too serious, an' he said to me, 'Leo, you okay?'" A small smile found its way to Butters' face. "It was kinda nice, bein' called by name by a superhero."

Harrumphing in disgust, Cartman looked away. "You're not much of a villainous arch-nemesis, Butters."

"Well, Eric, I think we make better friends than enemies anyway." Butters brightened. "And...while we're talking like this...honestly, and all..."

"What, another complaint?" Cartman asked, scoffing.

"Just an idea." Butters fidgeted a moment longer before composing himself and making eye contact again. His expression gave Cartman pause; Butters so rarely wore serious eyes. "I think you need to apologize for those things you said about Kyle being a superhero's girlfriend."

Well, that was just about the last straw. "You want me to apologize to  _Kyle_ for speaking the truth? I just said what everybody's thinking! Even Stan agreed with me! You gonna go tell  _Stan_ he's the bad guy next, Butters?"

"Stan said something a little different," Butters said. "At least, I thought so. He just said he was worried about Kyle. I...I don't think you're really worried, Eric. I think maybe you were just being mean, 'cause you and Kyle aren't always friends."

More like he and Kyle were never friends. Cartman could think of a few choice words to describe him, and he knew the feeling was mutual. Kyle just couldn't handle how much better Cartman was, that he picked a better major and had a better job and made more money. That he knew about Denver's real hero way before anyone else. Wouldn't Kyle just die if he knew that while he was rag-writing a gossip column, Cartman was out saving Denver. Wouldn't he just curl up and die?

"I'm not apologizing to Kyle," Cartman said, drawing himself up to his full height so he could glare down at Butters. Two inches was a lot of distance in the game of power dynamics.

"Well, no, you never do," Butters agreed meekly. "And Kyle doesn't apologize to you, so I can't even say fair is fair. But, Eric...you need to apologize to Kenny."

Cartman felt a hiccup in his anger. He hadn't been expecting that. "What? Kenny? Why?"

"Gee whiz, Eric...didn't you see how Kenny was lookin' at Kyle when he was talking about Mysterion? All proud and happy, 'cause Kyle really cares about his work and does such a good job at it." Butters sighed. "Eric, I think you really frightened Kenny with that refrigerator stuff."

Rolling his eyes, Cartman took on a patient voice. "Poor people don't experience fear, Butters. It's what makes the threat of an uprising so real and terrifying."

"I think everybody knows what it's like to be scared, Eric. And you scared Kenny. He didn't say so out loud, but I ran into him this morning at the bus stop. He was all worried 'cause Kyle's workin' so hard lately. He said he woke up at five this morning and Kyle was already gone. He said, 'I'm afraid I'm going to have to sit on him to stop him from overworking himself, Leo,' like he was kidding, but I know he's really worried."

Cartman didn't answer right away. He considered what Butters had said. Dug his tongue into his molar. Considered every word.

"He called you Leo?" he asked lightly.

"Well, sure, Eric! Kenny's the only one who ever uses my name. Not that I mind 'Butters,' but it's kind of nice to—"

Whatever else Butters was saying, Cartman tuned it out. Kenny, worried about Kyle. Kyle, falling all over Mysterion. Mysterion, calling Butters 'Leo.'

Just like Kenny did.

Just like  _only_ Kenny did.


	31. Chapter 31

Sometimes Jimmy wondered if he were really all that good of a friend. After all, this job had gotten Kyle involved in some dangerous stunts, and now he seemed to spend his days stressed out. Even when he smiled, it was strained. If only Jimmy had been able to get him a job that wouldn't put him through this. He wanted to make Kyle smile and laugh, not hunch over and slog through the day.

Jimmy had started cracking more jokes in the office, something he generally avoided. As much as comedy was in his heart, the newspaper had a serious role to play in the world, sharing truth with the people. If he could bring some levity to the workplace, though, that was different. His daily assignment, the one that didn't come from Victoria, was making sure Kyle got in five smiles.

Today, Jimmy almost wished Kyle were his usual stressed self. His eyes drooped with tiredness, and he floated through his assignments in a fog. A manila folder sat in the corner of his desk, and though he never opened it, he rested his hand on it gingerly every so often. The best Jimmy could get out of him was a weak smile that didn't reach his eyes, and Jimmy refused to put that towards his five-smile quota.

Around lunchtime, the bullpen had all but gone silent. Jimmy knew he and the others were all keeping an eye on Kyle, who'd barely said a word beyond "Good morning" to any of them. In another turn of events, Craig was the one to break the silence.

"Kyle beat us in this morning," he said, tilting his head towards Tweek. "What time did you get in this morning, Kyle?" he asked. Everyone's eyes shot to Kyle for the answer.

"Um. Early," Kyle said. Jimmy's heart sank. Tweek and Craig were never in later than eight o'clock, and while that wasn't extraordinarily early, how much longer had Kyle been there that he wouldn't divulge?

"Like, seven early?" Craig pressed. He and Tweek exchanged a glance, which Jimmy had also noticed happening a lot more frequently today.

"Yeah," Kyle said, obviously jumping on the out. "I was here at seven."

"You mean you got here at seven, or you were here when it turned seven?" Clyde asked, and Craig's eyes flickered to him in what Jimmy thought might be appreciation. They were an odd couple to be sure, but every so often Jimmy would catch a flicker of their friendship and understand it perfectly.

"What's with the interrogation?" Kyle asked. He was always a bit of a spitfire, from what Jimmy had seen in classes and meetings. Right now, though, Kyle's fire was clinging to coals.

"Kyle," Token said gently, "maybe you should go home. You don't seem well."

"I'm fine."

"We're not trying to gang up on you," Token continued.

"We're just worried," Clyde finished.

Though Jimmy listened to both of them beside him, he kept his eye on Tweek and Craig, who looked like they were having a serious telepathic conversation. Tweek bit his lip. Craig sighed. Tweek's eyes touched on Kyle briefly before turning back to his boyfriend. Craig rubbed his chin. It was like another language.

"We'll walk you out," Craig said finally.

Kyle protested weakly. Not in the sense that he was protesting out of obligation when he really wanted to go; Jimmy could see his resistance to leaving the office. His tiredness seemed to win out, though. He packed up his things, including work to take home with him. Token assured him it wasn't necessary, to do what he could get to and not feel obligated to finish everything. The last thing Kyle did was snatch up the manila folder, then Tweek and Craig flanked him out to the elevator.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Clyde got up, rounded the bullpen, and leaned over Kyle's and Tweek's desks so that he formed a triangle with Jimmy and Token. "Okay, what the eff?" he hissed. Token shushed him, even though Jimmy didn't think his whisper would carry. He shook his head.

"I d-don't know. I've never seen K-Kuh-Kyle like this bef-f-fahh...fore."

"Maybe he's sick," Token said. "He was so pale, with bags under his eyes. I don't think he got a wink of sleep."

"No," Clyde agreed.

"I can't decide if I think he's f-f-feeling sick, or if something b-b-buh...baaah...baahh..." Jimmy sighed heavily. Clyde and Token both waited; Jimmy was grateful that his friends never tried to finish his sentences for him, the way some people did when he got stuck. "Bad happened."

"Something bad happened," Clyde said with assurance he rarely had. When Token and Jimmy looked to him for more details, he shook his head. No proof. "Just instinct."

The bullpen was a family. Sure, the  _Rocky Mountain_ staff all got along, but there was an age gap, and the younger half had a relationship all its own. Token and Jimmy had been interns when the paper was still in its infancy building readership, and then Craig and Tweek joined as their design team, and Craig finagled Clyde's interview right after. Now Jimmy had brought in Kyle, and he fit right in. But when you worked together in close proximity, in constant contact, like this, you picked up on the little details. When it was okay to tease Tweek and when it wasn't; when Craig was angry and when he was just his usual stoic self; when Clyde was joking and when he fully believed what he was saying; when Token was taking the lead and when he was just the sanest person in the room; when Jimmy needed help and when he didn't. It was second nature, totally in sync. Jimmy suspected the bullpen had already started feeling out Kyle's nuances, but rapidly his behavior surrounding the vigilante articles was becoming a concern.

The elevator dinged. Tweek and Craig didn't return right away. Though voices didn't carry too far in the office, largely open space trumped by bad acoustics, Jimmy could still make out the quiet buzz of the couple talking. The voices were not getting closer. Clyde straightened and tilted his head side to side, cracking his neck. Token flinched.

"Don't do that."

"Stiff."

Tweek and Craig reappeared at the other end of the barrier of cubicle walls, both wearing sunken expressions. Neither appeared surprised at the other three's stares, or by Clyde's immediate question.

"What's going on?"

The couple exchanged looks again, and Token drummed his fingers once against the edge of his desk. Tweek's brows knitted, lines creasing his forehead, and he swallowed. Jimmy translated it as  _We have to tell them._ Craig slipped his hands into his pockets, held Tweek's gaze a second longer, and nodded.

In lieu of an answer, Craig went to his desk and picked up his camera. Still standing, he turned it on and pressed some buttons. When Jimmy could see Clyde about to have another outburst, Craig turned the camera around, and everyone else leaned forward to see. Craig sidestepped Clyde and stood behind Kyle's desk instead. Jimmy didn't have to get up out of his seat to look.

The picture on the screen was of Mysterion leaping between building rooftops. Clyde made to grab for the camera, and Craig deftly pulled it out of his reach.

"Dude!" Clyde half-shouted. Token shushed him again.

"Tweek spotted him the other night when we were getting gas," Craig said, looking down at his camera. "We chased him halfway across town. Got some pictures."

"Did you tell Kyle?" Token asked.

"I printed out a few for him. Not all of them. Said we lost sight of Mysterion." Craig paused. Heaviness settled on the bullpen.

"You  _said_ that," Jimmy repeated, "but that d-d-duh-doesn't mean you  _did_."

"We didn't lose him," Tweek confirmed. Craig clicked through his pictures and held out the camera again. The other three observed the picture, one of Mysterion, practically obscured from vision, disappearing behind an apartment building.

"That's the last picture I got," Craig said. 

Clyde, leaning over Tweek's desk and crossing his arms, glanced up at Craig without straightening. "You didn't show this one to Kyle?" Craig shook his head. "Why not?"

"That's Kyle's apartment building," Tweek said.

Dead silence.

"You think Mysterion went to see Kyle last night?" Token finally ventured. They both nodded. Token sighed.

"I'd ask why you didn't ask Kyle about it," Clyde said, "but I get it, man. He was like a zombie today." Clyde's fingers tightened, deepening creases in the fabric of his sleeves. "You don't think Mysterion did anything to him?"

"Nope," Craig said. The rest looked over at him. He didn't elaborate.

"You didn't see or hear anything else?" Token pressed.

"Nope."

"But you think Mysterion's still cool? We don't have to beat him up or anything?" Clyde asked.

"Nope."

"You gonna give us any more details as to  _why_ you feel this way?" Clyde asked, voice drawling with the expertise of someone who'd grown up with Craig.

"Nope."

With little new information and many new concerns, the bullpen struggled back into their work. In some ways, the afternoon dragged; Jimmy's mind wandered to Kyle's drawn face and what could have gotten him like that. In other ways, it moved right along, because soon enough, four o'clock came and employees started closing down. The older half of the staff all left by four-thirty as usual; around five, Clyde headed out, followed closely by Token. Tweek and Craig got up around quarter past.

"You need a ride, man?" Tweek asked with a shiver. Jimmy declined.

"I want to get a little extra work done so K-Kyle d-doesn't have to worry ab-b-buh...about it in the morning. I'll by out by five-thirty."

Jimmy infrequently closed the office, but he could manage. After bidding good night to the last of his coworkers, he set to work. As an intern, he'd dabbled in copyediting, so he swiped a few of Kyle's inbox assignments. Nothing major, just a few blurbs for the business section, submissions from freelancers S.M. Lieber and J. Kurtzberg. Jimmy had to pick up his crutch and wave it around sometimes when the lights automatically turned off, alerting the motion detectors that someone was still there. It was a little after five-thirty when he finished, and he decided that was enough.

Just as Jimmy was pulling himself up by his crutches, he heard a smash. He hurried around the cubicle walls and towards the huge windows overlooking downtown Denver. One of the windows had been smashed through, and Jimmy saw a hole surrounded by a spiderweb of cracks. They were too high up in the building for something to have been thrown accidentally through their window. Jimmy's eyes scanned the floor, landing on a brick surrounded by glass shards. A piece of paper was tied around the brick with package string.

Carefully avoiding crunching glass under his crutches or catching his feet on them, Jimmy inched closer. He could see something attached to the other side of the brick, behind the flap of paper. Something hissing, trembling.

Just as Jimmy got close enough to read the paper—he gasped— _Kyle!_ —and then—

It exploded.


	32. Chapter 32

When Stan walked into the apartment, Kenny was sitting on Kyle.

Stan stood in the doorway for a second, observing. Kyle was sprawled out on his stomach on the floor, and Kenny was sitting on his back, though with Kenny's feet and hands all flat on the floor, it was clear that all of his weight wasn't on Kyle.

"Stan!" Kyle croaked from the carpet. "Help me!"

"Well, hold on." Stan shut the door behind himself. "Explain."

"Kyle got sent home from school 'cause he's not feeling well," Kenny said in his patented teasing voice. Agony creased in the lines around his eyes. "I found him trying to work from home."

"And clearly this is better for my health," Kyle muttered.

"I told you if you didn't stop working, I was going to sit on you. If I didn't follow through, you'd never take me seriously again."

"You think I'm taking you seriously  _now_?"

"Okay, cool, I'm caught up," Stan said. "I think you can get off him, Kenny, but I'll help you police for the rest of the evening." Kenny flashed him a thumbs-up and rolled off of Kyle. As soon as Kyle was up on his feet again, awkwardness settled in; Stan still hadn't had a chance to apologize. When he woke up, the apartment was empty. Kenny looked back and forth between them.

"Your shift starts now, dude," he said to Stan. With a single clap of his hands, Kenny said, "I'm going to take care of dinner tonight, so you two sit down."

"You're making dinner?" Stan asked skeptically as Kenny passed him headed for the kitchen area.

"I said I was taking care of it," Kenny replied brightly, rooting around in one of the drawers. He turned back around with a menu in hand. "Chinese okay?"

Kyle stifled a laugh behind Stan, but by the time Stan turned, he'd looked away awkwardly again. Kenny shot Stan a meaningful look over his cell phone, a flip model he opened with an expert flick of his wrist.

While Kenny called in dinner, Kyle sat on the couch, bringing his knees into his chest, and Stan slumped into the chair across from him. Starting was the hardest part.

"I'm sorry about how I talked to you last night," Stan said. He thought over his words carefully before continuing. "I...I do worry that you're getting too wrapped up in Mysterion. But I should have been honest with you and talked it out instead of being a jerk." After another pause, he added, "And your meatloaf is delicious. I'm especially sorry for that comment."

Kyle barely cracked a smile at that last part, and worry settled in Stan's lungs. "I'm sorry, too. I don't...really think you need to be apologizing to me." A funny look crossed Kyle's face. "I think you were right."

"What was Stan right about?" Kenny asked, flopping onto the couch beside Kyle, who stiffened.

"Kyle's meatloaf is delicious," Stan said, a wary eye on Kyle.

"Ain't it the truth," Kenny said. He bumped his shoulder against Kyle's with a smile, and Kyle flinched away from him, actually turning his head the opposite direction so as not to look at him.

Even if Stan hadn't picked up on Kenny's feelings, he could have read the hurt on his face from a mile away. As long as Stan could remember, Kenny was always bumping Kyle's shoulder and leaning on him or hipchecking him into displays at the grocery store. Kyle had never once jerked away from him like he was contagious. 

Swallowing, Kenny composed himself. "Do you guys need some time alone?" he asked gently.

"No," Stan said. At the same time, Kyle sucked in a short breath, eyes trailing back not quite to Kenny's face. His unspoken  _yes_ hung in the air. Stan had never seen a kicked puppy before, but he imagined they looked happier than Kenny right now.

"You sure?" Kenny asked, presumably in response to Stan, but with eyes never leaving Kyle's face. Kyle's cheeks had colored, and he studiously inspected his nails, picking at them.

 _Shit_ was the only word that crossed Stan's mind, but the thought behind the curse was that Kyle figured out Kenny's feelings, too, and was rejecting the affectionate contact. Stan wondered if their interactions had been this stilted when Kenny had physically dragged Kyle away from his work earlier.

But, no, Kenny had been more or less relaxed when Stan walked in. Kyle had even been droll when he asked for help. Stan relaxed; Kyle must have just not wanted to talk about Mysterion in front of Kenny.

Why would that be? Kenny was always up for listening to Kyle talk about Mysterion. Hung on his every word, grinned at his glowing praise. Come to think of it, Kyle's gushing didn't seem to bother Kenny at all. If Stan heard Wendy going on and on about some other guy's underwear, it would crush him. How could Kenny have feelings for Kyle for fifteen years and not be bothered?

Fifteen years. Jesus. "Crush" and "like-like" had long since disappeared in the rear-view mirror. Kenny was in love. _How could it not bother him?_

"Kenny?" Kyle asked, his voice soft. Kenny's attention was immediate. Kyle picked at his nails again. "Do you think...I mean...am I...too fixated on Mysterion?"

Kenny's eyebrows raised slowly. "Too fixated?" he echoed.

"Do you think I'm too into the excitement of a vigilante? Not...not seeing what's real and in front of me?"

Kenny's eyes flew to Stan somewhere between alarm and accusation, and Stan hoped his frantic shrug communicated that he hadn't told Kyle about Kenny's feelings.

"I'm worried about your becoming a target or getting hurt," Kenny said.

"That's not what I asked you," Kyle said. He hadn't looked up at Kenny once, and the color in his cheeks hadn't faded. "Do you think I'm obsessed with Mysterion?"

"No."

Kyle's fingers paused in their nervous movement.

"I think you care about your story," Kenny said, "and that you care about Mysterion. But I wouldn't call that obsession. He did help you out a few times. You guys are kind of like friends."

Kyle finally looked up at him. After a lifetime of best-friendship, Stan thought he knew every expression, every twitch of an eyebrow or nostril. He'd never seen Kyle make the face he was now, but he could read between the lines. There was something Kyle wasn't telling them but was still testing them on. But then, there was a question in his eyes, too, like he was testing for an answer he didn't have. And a flicker of guilt, like he knew it.

A sound from the next room made them all jump Kyle sighed. "My phone," he said, getting up and following the noise. Stan and Kenny sat, quiet in thought, distantly able to hear Kyle answering his cell in his room.

"What the hell, dude?" Kenny asked, exhaling a tired laugh.

"Sorry to drag you into that."

"Obsessed with Mysterion, eh?" Kenny drawled. Stan flashed him a crooked smile.

"He never stops talking about him. Even you have to admit that. Every chance Kyle gets to say Mysterion's name, he takes it."

"Not _every_ chance," Kenny said. His face split with that megawatt smile, and Stan laughed on instinct.

"What exactly does  _that_ mean?"

Kenny opened his mouth to answer, but then Kyle came back into the room, and his attention diverted. Then Kenny was on his feet. Stan followed his gaze to Kyle, who'd gone white as a sheet, phone in his trembling hand. Stan got up, too.

"That was Token," Kyle finally stammered out, a telltale quiver in his voice. This time when Kenny came closer and reached out for him, he didn't flinch away. "Jimmy's in the hospital."


	33. Chapter 33

It took all of two minutes for them to get their coats on. When Stan opened the door, a young man stood on the other side, one hand raised to knock, the other holding a large brown bag.

"Oh!" he said, though he recovered quickly. "Hello! Healthy Asian Garden?"

Kenny practically dove over Stan to grab the bag and shove a wad of small bills into the deliveryman's hand. If this were unusual customer behavior, the guy didn't react to it. "Listen," Kenny said, "I know this is an insane request, but can you drive us to the hospital? Our friend was in an accident."

The deliveryman's eyes widened. "Which hospital?"

"St. Luke's," Kyle called from the back of the group. Kenny passed the takeout bag over his shoulder, and Kyle grabbed it and left it on the counter.

"It's on my way," the deliveryman said. Stan didn't think was true and turned his pockets inside-out for another ten bucks to add to his tip.

Twenty minutes later, they were walking as quickly as they could without running through the front doors of the hospital. The scent of stale disinfectant washed over Stan, rolling his stomach, beckoning mental images of clear fluids in plastic bags, closing the walls in on all sides.

Token had texted Kyle Jimmy's room number, and when they made it to his door, the rest of the bullpen was there. Stan went very still when he got into the room. Jimmy had half his face wrapped in bandages, the other covered in scratches with medical tape over them. He was hooked up to all sorts of needles and wires. Stan felt woozy, wavering on his feet. Kenny's hand on his back stayed him.

"Jimmy...!" Kyle managed, hurrying closer. Craig stood over Jimmy's bed, a stone-faced Heimdall keeping watch, with Tweek trembling at his side. Clyde sat on the edge of Jimmy's bed with tears running down his face that he was furiously trying to wipe away. Beside him, Token stepped back to make room for Kyle.

"Hey, K-K-Kuh...Kuh..." Jimmy's eyelids fluttered, and Stan wavered again, held up only by Kenny's strength behind him.

"Hi, Jimmy," Kyle said, voice gentle as a mother's whose child had scraped his knee. It amazed Stan how Kyle could sit in the backseat of a Chinese food delivery car for twenty minutes with his face buried in Kenny's sweatshirt, and still be able to turn it off and play the part of composed adult in front of Jimmy. Stan was lucky his vision wasn't blurring right now.

"Stan," Jimmy managed, voice even quieter. Stan lurched forward, a motion that reminded him all too much of throwing up.

"Hey, Jimmy," he said, his voice thin even in his own ears.

"Did Token...c-call and g-g...g...get you g-good and scared?" Half of Jimmy's smile crept out from under the bandages. "It's j-j-juhh....juhhh....just a scratch."

Silence answered him. Clyde let out a shuddering sob.

"Wow. Wh-what a terrific audience."

"What happened?" Kenny asked, drawing everyone's attention to him. "All Kyle said was there was an accident."

"I didn't want to tell you over the phone," Token said to Kyle. A heavy pause followed, and Stan got the distinct feeling that the rest of the bullpen knew a lot more than they did. "Someone threw some sort of firecracker through the office window. Jimmy was the only one there when it happened. He heard the window smash, went to check it out, and it went off."

"Through..." Kyle's eyes widened. "We're...on the top floor of our building. They would've had to throw it from the rooftop next door." A long pause. "So, it was intentional. Someone threw a bomb in our window on purpose."

"It was kind of, ngh, homemade, according to the cops," Tweek said, winding a spike of hair around his finger and pulling. "So it didn't cause as much damage as it could have. It started a small fire in the office, but firemen were, ngh, able togetthereprettyquickly...!"

Kyle swallowed. "Do they have any leads?" he asked. The split-second quiver of his bottom lip told Stan how hard he was working to keep it together.

Another uncomfortable silence. This time the bullpen all exchanged looks over Kyle's head.

"No fingerprints," Token said carefully.

"The bomb was attached t-t-to...a b-buh-brick." Jimmy hesitated for a long time, stuttering softly. No one moved to interrupt him. "I saw it just before it...b-b-b...before it..." Jimmy closed his eyes and took a long breath in. He held it and let it out in a frustrated gust. "It was addressed to you, Kyle."

Kyle went very still, but not like he hadn't been expecting what Jimmy said. Unlike Stan, who felt like the floor had just been pulled out from under him.

"To me?" Kyle asked, eerily calm. "The brick said 'To Kyle' on it?"

The rest of the bullpen cocked their heads in Jimmy's direction, like this was new information to them, too. He sighed.

"It was addressed t-t-to you," Jimmy said finally. "I'd rather not say how."

Stan had grown up in South Park, had stood at the bus stop every school day for years and years listening to Cartman call Kyle anything but his name. While adults gave him a slap on the wrist but didn't really do anything to stop it. It bothered Kyle, he knew, to hear Cartman take a part of who he was, his culture, his faith, and equate it to garbage. Stan knew without Jimmy's saying how the bomb had been addressed. And so, judging from the fresh flush of rage that climbed from his neck to his ears, did Kyle.

A bang from behind Stan made everybody jump, even Jimmy starting in his bed with a wince. Kenny was facing the rest of the room but had swung his arm back, his fist trembling against the wall. In fact, Kenny was trembling all over, teeth grit, eyes on fire. He swallowed once, twice, hard, then stormed out of the room.

"Kenny?" Kyle started to follow, then stopped, turned to Jimmy again, and took a few steps back towards the bed.

"G-Go ahead, Kyle," Jimmy said. "He's j-j-juh...just worried about y-you."

A quick sweep of the room, and Stan suddenly wondered if he should be so proud of the fact that he finally figured out Kenny's feelings. They were apparently quite obvious to people who had met him twice. Understanding flickered on every face. 

"I'll be right back," Kyle said. He hurried out the door, and Stan followed.

Out in the hallway, Kenny was pacing, his heavy, angry breathing audible from the door. Stan was sure that if they were anywhere but a hospital right now, Kenny would be punching something, but he couldn't say why he was so sure of that. Kenny never punched anything. Stan had never seen him this angry before.

"Kenny," Kyle said, reproach hinting at the edge of his voice. Kenny raked his hand through his hair and huffed another deep breath. "Kenny, I know it's scary, and I—"

"That _fucking_  Fatass!" Kenny snarled in a voice that wasn't his own. Stan reeled back while Kyle shushed Kenny's outburst, stepping closer.

The capitalization in Kenny's voice was more than a generic insult. "Cartman? But why would Cartman set fire to Kyle's office?" Stan asked, inching closer as well. The three huddled together and moved closer to the wall, making room for traffic in the hallway. "Don't you think it's a little extreme, even for him?"

"This was a threat from the Coon," Kyle said definitively. His expression turned grave. "He's trying to get to Mysterion."

Stan grit his teeth and clenched his fist. Kenny pulled at his hair again.

"Cartman  _is_ the Coon, Kyle, don't you get it?" Kenny snapped. Kyle blinked, mouth open. "You saw him that day. At the mall. You know it's him!"

"How...?  _How_ could Cartman possibly be the Coon?" Kyle asked, but even as the words came out of his mouth, Stan could hear his conviction wavering. The incompetence, the buffoonery, the panic and damage in the wake of his antics. It all added up to Cartman. Hell, Cartman's insistence on promoting the Coon should have been their first clue. "No wonder he hates Mysterion so much," Kyle murmured, practically an afterthought.

"And where the hell was Mysterion when Jimmy needed him?" Kenny turned to Kyle and cupped his face in his hands. "What if it had been  _you_?"

Stan fought the instinct to look away politely. Kenny was getting more and more reckless; even Kyle wasn't _that_ blind. Kyle fidgeted, Kenny's fingers shivering on his cheekbones, on his jaw.

"It's not like I'm more important than Jimmy, Kenny. Mysterion can't be everywhere at once."

"But he should have been there," Kenny said. His hands shifted slightly, fingertips dipping beneath the furry lining of Kyle's ushanka.

"Kenny, it's okay," Kyle said. He reached up, and for a second, Stan thought he was going to rest his hands on top of Kenny's, hold him there. Instead, he started prying Kenny's fingers away from his red cheeks. "I know you're scared, and what happened is...it's a nightmare. Hurting Jimmy is unforgivable. But you may have given us a lead! You figured out the Coon's identity, didn't you? We'll catch Cartman."

"'We'?" Stan echoed sharply.

Kenny's fingers fought Kyle's rejection, still holding his chin, thumbs ghosting the corners of his mouth. "Kyle, I..." The next word seemed to catch in his throat. "I..." His eyebrows bowed, a rare vulnerability wiping the anger from his face. "Kyle,  _I..._!" It was the most anguished syllable Stan had ever heard.

Kyle pushed Kenny's hands away, not unkindly. "Don't worry, Kenny, we'll get to the bottom of this." He gave a firm nod, his mouth curved in a smile even though his brows were still furrowed. Then Kyle turned and headed back into Jimmy's room.

Stan stood in disbelief, not sure if he'd just watched rejection or Kyle's patented stupidity working overtime. When he turned back, Kenny had covered his face with both hands.

"This is my fault," Kenny said. His voice was muffled through his palms, but it had always been muffled through the hood of his jacket when they were kids. Stan spoke fluent Kenny.

"It's not your fault," Stan said. He pulled off his hat, his scalp starting to sweat in the climate-controlled hospital, and ran a hand through his hair, which he knew would be flat again as soon as his fingers left it. "Kyle's right, you're helping solve—"

"No, you don't understand. This is my fault. Kyle is in danger because of me." Kenny dragged his hands down his face and let his arms fall limp by his sides once his fingertips fell off the edge of his jaw. "It's me. I'm Mysterion."


	34. Chapter 34

Seeing Jimmy wasn't any easier knowing that he'd be bandaged up like a mummy beforehand. Kyle rejoined the bullpen and sat on the opposite edge of Jimmy's bed as Clyde, who was clasping Jimmy's hand in both of his. Kyle felt a smile hint on his mouth and patted Jimmy's other hand.

"How's K-K-Kenny?" Jimmy asked, and for the first time that night, Kyle wasn't sure he could keep it together. That was so like Jimmy, to be in the hospital bruised and bleeding from head to toe from an attack meant for Kyle, and only ever asking if everyone else was okay. It took a second for Kyle's voice to bypass the sudden block in his throat.

"He's okay," he whispered, figuring it was the volume of voice easiest to control. He shifted from patting Jimmy's hand to stroking it gently to make the whisper look more complimentary to the mood. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't be," Jimmy said. "I'd d-d-do the same thing if I could move my hand."

Kyle heard Kenny and Stan shuffling back into the room behind him. He looked over his shoulder. Stan looked shell-shocked, an expression that reminded Kyle of the one he'd worn when they had to watch a sex ed video in middle school. Kenny still wasn't himself, but instead of furious he looked downright dejected.

"I'm sorry, Jimmy," he said. "You're a good guy and a good friend, and I'm throwing temper tantrums. I'm here for you, whatever you need. Promise."

And that hurt Kyle's heart, too, because no one was better for their promises than Kenny. He looked away quickly. His interactions with Kenny had been weird all day, entirely Kyle's fault, and now wasn't the time to start overanalyzing why.

"Thanks," Jimmy said. He was the rare kind of person who always sounded like he meant it wholeheartedly, "thanks." Kyle knew he himself said it mostly as a reflex from being brought up in a household that demanded good manners. Jimmy made every trifling favor sound like a kidney transplant, and always in earnest.

"Jimmy," a voice said softly, tenderly. It was the voice of a baby blanket, warm and protective, and it took Kyle a good couple of seconds to realize it was Craig. "I'm sorry to have to bring this up now, but I want to talk about it while we're all together."

"No p-p-p-puh...pahh...pa _hh_..." Pain crossed Jimmy's face, the first Kyle had seen all night, and Craig put a hand on his shoulder. Waited. "Problem," he finished.

"We're going to find the guy who did this, beat him black and blue, and dump his sorry ass at the police station so they can jail him for a-hundred-to-life," Craig said. He was back to his usual monotone, and the discrepancy of effort between his voice and his plan almost made Kyle laugh. Tweek appeared more than a little alarmed at the suggestion, and Clyde started wiping his face again. It was a futile effort, Kyle could tell, but he couldn't think badly of him. It wasn't Clyde's fault his heart was so big.

Token sighed and crossed his arms. "As much as I echo the sentiment, Craig, we can't go around beating people up. Assault and battery is a crime, too, you know."

"I like it," Kenny said, and Kyle shot him a look.

"I agree with _Token_ ," he said.

"It's that guy from the expo, isn't it?" Clyde asked. He sniffled when everyone looked at him. "The arsonist. It's him again."

"The Coon," Kyle confirmed.

"So why don't we do what we do best?" Clyde continued. He wiped his nose on his sleeve. "We'll report on him. Front page. He wants to c-call himself Denver's hero and does something like this?" More sniffling, the corners of his eyes leaking. "Setting fire to a local newspaper office d-doesn't s-s-seem heroic to me. Hurting Jimmy isn't h-heroic. And neither is what he c-called you, Kyle. We'll put the truth out there, and that'll b-be the end of the Coon."

Thank God Clyde was a pacifist, Kyle thought. It was a good plan. "I like it. His actions have besmirched his reputation enough as it is. We'll put it in black and white."

"Yeah," Clyde said. "Besmirch." He rolled the word around in his mouth like it was from a foreign language, and Kyle looked away to hide his smile.

"And if we find him before the police do, we have a piñata party," Kenny said brightly. Stan gaped at him, wide-eyed, and it occurred to Kyle how quiet his best friend had been. He supposed tonight was a lot to take in. He hadn't forgotten how poorly Stan held up in hospitals, either.

"Okay," Craig agreed. "I can live with that. As long as we get him."

They stayed a little longer, easing back into more comfortable conversation. Kyle was glad Kenny and Stan knew to keep quiet about Cartman. There wasn't any physical proof beyond the anger rolling in Kyle's stomach, but they were going to get to the truth no matter what. 

Kyle, Kenny, and Stan were the first to leave, though Craig and Tweek were right behind them; they shared the elevator down. Kyle suspected Clyde would stay until visiting hours were over, and Token would wait so he wasn't leaving alone. Tweek offered them a ride home, and Stan readily accepted, sounding exhausted.

The ride to their apartment was quiet, Kyle in the middle seat between Stan's slumped shoulders and the warmth radiating off of Kenny. Tweek didn't need directions to their apartment, which impressed Kyle. His memory must have been something else if he could navigate after being there once. It was also a relief just to ride in the backseat and not have to think.

Which his brain decided meant it was a great time to start _over_ thinking.

For the last twenty-four hours, Kenny had darted in and out of his every thought. Kyle had already lamented ruining his kiss with Mysterion, though that wound was healing faster than he would have anticipated. Instead he was preoccupied with what exactly had made his mind choose that moment to superglue itself to Kenny. The warmth of his hand on Kyle's back that night hadn't disappeared hours after Kenny left the room, and Kyle wondered why that was, too. Kenny was always touching him, hugging him, or elbowing him. That was just the kind of guy he was. Kyle had never given Kenny's demonstrative behavior a second thought before.

Now he was giving it a whole lot of first thoughts. They went over a pothole, and Kyle's arm bumped against Kenny's. Even that felt nice. 

Kyle wouldn't call himself a hugger, but he never minded when Kenny touched him. He liked the feeling, actually. Kenny was warm and safe. Even a casual arm slung around Kyle's shoulders was an indestructible shield to ward off the whole world. Kyle hugged Stan sometimes, too, and those were good hugs, but Kenny's were different. They made a bad situation more manageable, a simple task feel like a huge accomplishment, and the fear of a diabetic attack a distant memory. Everything was better when Kenny was within reach. 

A film of panic covered Kyle's vision. Of course he'd said Kenny's name instead of Mysterion's. He didn't want a hero to swoop in and rescue him. He didn't need one. He had one.

He'd wanted it to be Kenny.

Kyle froze in the middle seat, tightening his stomach muscles to keep from leaning into Kenny when Tweek turned or when another driver cut him off and he had to brake quickly. Every four-letter word Kyle knew circulated in his mind. Why couldn't he have figured this out sooner? Why had this never occurred to him before, that he might like Kenny, that Kenny was special? Because it was an absurd thought, he rationalized, that he might see one of his best friends as anything else.

An absurd thought that was quickly proving to be reality.

They thanked Tweek when they reached their apartment, and he assured them it was no problem. Craig nodded out the window, and then they were off. Kyle, Kenny, and Stan trudged into the building and called the elevator. Kyle huffed a single breath, feeling a little warm now that his anxiety was winding down. He paused and checked his phone. Eight forty-six. A day ago he'd been in Mysterion's arms.

The elevator was even warmer than the hallway as they took the slow ride up. Kyle bit his lip. Oh. Maybe that should have been his first thought when he saw the time.

"Got your key?" he asked Stan, who nodded and fished around in his pocket for it. When the elevator reached their floor, Stan got off first and led the way down the hall. Kyle tugged on Kenny's elbow and pointedly ignored all the fireworks going off in his brain when Kenny leaned closer. "I'm okay, but I might need a sip of orange juice when we get in," he whispered against Kenny's ear, suppressing a shiver he decided to blame on his diabetes. "I don't want to freak Stan out."

"Got it," Kenny said, straightening and draping an arm casually over his shoulders.

They followed Stan in, the scent of Chinese takeout welcoming them into their apartment. "Oh, yeah," Stan said, blinking out of his fog. "I forgot about this." Kyle's stomach growled in agreement, and Kenny chuckled, letting his arm slip off Kyle's shoulder and making his way to the fridge.

"Ky, you mind if I swipe some of your juice?" he asked, chill as anything. He plucked one of the little bottles from the fridge and tilted it in Kyle's direction.

"Yeah, no problem," Kyle said, hoping he sounded just as relaxed. He must have, because Stan didn't pause in his task of retrieving plates and utensils.

"Want a sip?" Kenny asked, twisting off the cap.

"Sure." Kyle took a few short gulps and immediately felt better. He tipped the bottle straight to gauge how much he'd had, then sipped a little more and handed it back. Kenny didn't so much as bat an eye, but nodded when Kyle smiled his thanks.

They made up plates and microwaved dinner, then sat around their living room, Stan in the chair, Kenny and Kyle on the couch. For a few minutes, they ate in silence. Then the small talk started.

"How was your class today, Kenny?" Stan asked. Kenny's hand hesitated in midair, his fork hovering between his plate and his mouth. He recovered quickly.

"Pretty good. Midterm exam is next week, right after Halloween, so class today was a lot of review."

"Feeling confident?" Stan got up and went to the kitchen area, returning shortly with the hot mustard.

"Oh, yeah," Kenny said with a grin. "Karen's giving me a hard time about it, since her midterms are already over."

"How is Karen? I haven't seen her in ages," Stan said, licking mustard off his thumb.

"She's great. Really likes her school." Kenny's eyes crinkled with his smile, his whole face going soft at the subject of his little sister. Kyle drew his fork out of his mouth slowly, dragging the prongs down his bottom lip. "She's mostly taking classes related to her major now. Got a lot of her general stuff out of the way her first year. Every time I see her, she's going on and on about the wild new fabrics she's working with and how she's basically sewing circles around her classmates because, you know, she's awesome." Kenny took a bite of fried rice. "I mean, my words, not hers. She's all modest, saying everyone's in the same boat. Except everybody else is sitting in the lifeboats, and she's the captain of the ship."

Stan and Kyle both laughed, exchanging a knowing look at Kenny's glow of pride.

"She's got a fashion show coming up next week, actually. It's the day after my midterm. She's been working on it all semester."

"Can we go?" Kyle asked. Kenny's eyes lit up.

"I think so! I was going to sneak in the back anyway...you guys want to come?"

"Yeah, sounds great," Stan said. "What time is it? I should put in for the time off now so I can plan around it."

Kenny rattled off the time and place in between bites of broccoli and tofu. As he talked, his whole body swayed every so slightly with excitement, his shoulder bumping Kyle's over and over.

Okay, Kyle decided. Now that he knew why he felt so mixed up, he could do something about it. Kenny never had to know that Kyle thought of him as anything but a friend. Kyle knew he could tell Kenny to his face—"could" in the hypothetical sense, not in the literal "without dying of embarrassment" sense—and that Kenny would be really sweet about it, let him down easy, and they could go back to normal. But why burden Kenny with that at all? It wasn't his responsibility to mollycoddle Kyle. No, Kyle could handle this on his own. Focus on the friendship, make the dumb crush go away.

But he could start tomorrow. For now, with Kenny's smile warming him like the sun, Kenny's shoulder against his reminding him that everything was going to be okay...for now, Kyle could pretend.


	35. Chapter 35

The second the door closed behind him, Tweek made a beeline for the coffee pot. Craig watched impassively as Tweek's hands twitched their way through preparing a pot to brew.

"I hate seeing Jimmy like that, too," Craig said. Tweek huffed and braced both hands against the edge of the counter. He kept his back to Craig and focused on the coffee dripping into the pot. "It's okay if you're upset."

Babysitter. Babysitter, babysitter, babysitter. Tweek dug his fingers into the granite, nails already chewed down as far as they could go. No comforting arms around him, no kiss on his temple, no fingers in his hair. Across the room, trying to psychoanalyze him from a safe distance. Jesus Christ.

"Just cut it out, Craig.  _Ngh._ "

Craig didn't answer. Of course not, why would he? Why talk when he could stare blankly down at someone from his gigantic height. Tweek watched the line of coffee climb higher up the pot. He was tired of being handled with kid gloves. Craig wasn't going to ask what he should cut out or why, he was just going to stand there waiting for Tweek to say something or not say something. That looming height that used to be such a comfort only made Tweek feel more inadequate now.

"Why don't we just, ngh...say it out loud, okay?" Tweek fought not to let his words spill out too quickly. He wanted to sound clear, not hysterical. "That this has run its course."

The silence behind him stayed, but Tweek felt sure that the temperature in the room had dropped. Craig's quiet didn't feel patient.

"That  _what_ has run its course?" Craig asked, voice hard.

"This. Us. Whatever this stupidthingwe'redoingis _gah_!" Tweek took a quick breath to compose himself. "I know you feel...Idon'tknow...obligated to stay with me, or something, ngh, because you don't think I can take care of myself, but I don't need a babysitter. You don't have to feel like you  _have_ to stay."

"I don't feel like I have to stay," Craig said, and somewhere in the crevices of his nasally monotone, Tweek could feel the aftershocks of anger. Maybe this was a shitty time to have this conversation, right after a long night in the emergency room. Then again, it would always be a shitty time, and Tweek didn't always have the courage. He couldn't backpedal now.

"Craig, I appreciate you," Tweek said slowly. The coffee pot was nearly filled now. He rustled through a cabinet for a mug; as soon as the pot was brewed, he could just take that and his mug with him and hide in his room. "You made me believe I was capable of better things than I thought. That I could be better than I am. I...I'm never going to forget that." Quick breath, rip the band-aid off, the coffee was nearly done. "But I don't want you spending the rest of your life trapped in some loveless obligation of a relationship."

"Loveless?" Craig repeated, and Tweek jumped. He'd practically yelled the word. Craig, who never lost his cool. Tweek couldn't help himself from turning around then. Craig stood in the doorway to the kitchenette, taking up all of that exit space with long legs and broad shoulders, his dark eyes wide. He clenched his fists to the point of shaking. "What do you mean,  _loveless_?"

It wasn't that Tweek and Craig had never had their lovers' quarrels. In fact, they argued pretty regularly. But Craig had never yelled like this before, creating an earthquake in their kitchenette. All of Tweek's self-confidence drained in one go, and he yelped out a  _Gah!_ before spinning around again, reaching for the coffee pot. He counted the silence in Craig's wake. After two Mississippis, Craig slammed a fist against the door frame and stormed down the hall.

Tweek closed his eyes, tried to think back on his parents' advice when he was a kid. Find your happy place. He breathed in slowly through his nose and exhaled through his mouth, once, twice, five times, but nothing seemed to slow his pounding heart. Craig  _was_ his happy place, but he was Craig's miserable place. That wasn't fair. Tweek had to find something else to make him happy.

The sound of footsteps stomping closer pulled him out of his attempted reverie. He looked over his shoulder hesitantly to see Craig returning with a black shoebox in his hands and just barely had the reflexes to duck out of the way when Craig chucked it at him. The shoebox hit the fridge behind him and the lid flew off, sending hundreds of Craig's pictures exploding all over the floor.

Tweek's confidence might have had a misstep, but at least now he had his anger. "What the hell are you thowingshitatmefor _gah_!"

"You think I don't love you?" Craig snapped, leaning forward. "What's your problem?"

"You're the one withaproblem _ngh!_ " Tweek shot back. "Why would I think you love me? You've never said it, and you've never shown it, either!" Craig blinked once, hard, enough so that Tweek actually noted his eyes closing and opening again. "I don't even know if Kyle knows we're together! First he thought we were carpooling, now I'm pretty sure he just thinks we're roommates!"

"So, what, I gotta make some big  _gesture_ to prove I feel things? That the only thing that makes it real?"

"You don't make _any_ gestures! None! Ngh, not even, _gah_ , little ones!" Tweek hurled every ounce of frustration he had in him. If they were going to have a break-up fight, it might as well be epic. He slammed the coffee pot down on the counter, sending some of it splashing up over the edge and onto his hand. He'd probably have a burn mark in the morning, but right now he couldn't feel anything but the discomfort of liquid creasing between his fingers. "You treat me like a little kid who can'thandleanything! You're always hovering over me, waitingformetoscrewup, _ngh_!"

"No, I'm not!"

"Yes, you are!"

"I want to protect you," Craig said through gritted teeth. "I want to take care of you."

"Idon'tneedtakingcareof, Craig!  _Gaaaah!_ "

Craig looked like he wanted to hit him. Or maybe just punch the wall again. Or smash the coffeemaker. Over Tweek's dead body, that last one. When he raised his fists, Tweek braced himself for a real fight, the kind he hadn't gotten into since his grade school playground days.

"What did you mean, 'loveless'?" Craig asked, voice simmering down to a low burn. Tweek blinked. "Because you didn't open with me being a bad boyfriend, not showing you enough affection. You said this relationship is _loveless_." Craig's eyes sparked, and for a split second, Tweek could've sworn they were glowing, the kind of electric blue that only came in packages of neon markers. Tweek blinked, and the glow was gone, only Craig's pitch blue galaxy eyes staring back at him. "But I love you, so clearly it isn't."

Tweek didn't cry. Just because he was nervous didn't make him a blubbering crybaby. But he'd be lying if he said his eyes didn't sting at that, because Craig had never told Tweek he loved him before, and this was the absolute worst way to do it. For the rest of his life, Tweek would have to look back and remember that the first person who ever said  _I love you_  to him screamed it angrily in the midst of an atomic breakup.

"So that's half of us," Craig said, and his voice had dropped to an almost imperceptible volume, lips barely moving around the words. He stared Tweek down another few seconds. "Do you..." he faltered. "...love me?" He hesitated again. "Or, at least...you're not there yet, but it's down the road somewhere?"

The sting got worse, because Craig wasn't allowed to be vulnerable like this. Not now. Tweek wanted him to go back to being angry, angry enough to walk out the door and never look back. Then he could go find someone who didn't annoy the crap out of him or have a thousand rules and quirks he had to toe, and he'd be happier. And he'd never have to know how awful the idea of his finding someone else was.

To avoid answering the question, Tweek crouched down and fixed his attention on the floor, shuffling Craig's pictures back into piles. When his eyes focused on what was in front of him, his fingers paused, even his stupid twitching dying down for a second.

Every single picture was of him.

 _Can I take your picture?_ That question, in Craig's voice, had been so familiar in his ear a year ago. Shot after shot of Tweek looking embarrassed or confused, because why would Craig want to take his picture? But as he shuffled through newer pictures, ones Craig had taken when they'd been together a while, Tweek could see the subtle shift in his expressions. Still embarrassed, and maybe a little confused, but smiling, always smiling. Because the only person Craig ever wanted to take pictures of was him.

The tremor in his hands picked up again, shaking the photograph he clasped, the one from the crew race. The one that won awards and praise Craig had no use for, even though he'd said that day  _This is my favorite picture I've_ ever  _taken._ Tweek flattened his shins against the linoleum floor, his butt lowering onto his feet. Like that, being angry was too much effort, too much, and only tiredness was left.

Tweek laughed. A stilted, staccato, shriek of a sound, but a laugh nonetheless. "See?" he said softly. "It's shit like this. You won't kiss me, or touch me, or tell me how you feel...but you take all these stupid pictures."

Craig crouched down across from him and swallowed. "I kissed you once," he said. There was no accusation; his voice was gentle, the way it had been when he spoke to Jimmy in the hospital. "You nearly bit my tongue in half and told me it was too much pressure."

Tweek's face burned. He'd forgotten about that.

"I didn't want to pressure you," Craig added. He reached up and rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. "I guess...I went too much the other way."

Tweek went back to fidgeting with the pictures, not wanting to look up. Fine, it hadn't been all Craig's fault after all. But Craig wasn't pushing him to apologize, even though Tweek sensed that Craig wasn't accepting full responsibility, either.

"And I...didn't want to come out and say something that might pressure you, either," Craig mumbled. He turned his attention to the floor, too, and started picking up his pictures with care. "I...tried to tell you other ways, and you still freaked out."

"I didn't freak out! Ngh!"

Craig plucked the crew race photo from Tweek's hands and leaned closer. Tweek ducked his head, not caring if he looked like a turtle in its shell; he wasn't ready for eye contact. Craig's nose brushed against his wild hair, breath tickling him. "I told you I loved you in my clothes. Loved you in that picture. Loved that picture more than any I'd ever taken." Without moving his head, Craig turned the picture in his hands back towards Tweek. "You're looking at me instead of the camera. And you look happy."

Tweek ran his tongue over his lips, chapped and cracking. It was true.

"You freaked out," Craig said. "You hate this picture."

"I don't, _ngh_...hate it. I just...don't like pictures of myself. I'm not photogenic." Tweek wasn't entirely sure if that was true. He didn't really like pictures of himself, though he liked that Craig wanted to take them. He wasn't really photogenic, but Craig was right that he looked happy in this one. Face pink from the cold wind, but wrapped in the warmth of Craig's dark blue hoodie. Maybe that was what freaked him out. "It's okay if you...likethesepictures, I mean...I just don't...geh, wantmypicture out there."

It was private. The way he was looking at Craig, how painfully  _obvious_ it was. How stupid it made him feel. How stupid he felt now.

He let himself lean forward, his head fitting perfectly under Craig's chin. Under his hand, he could feel Craig's heartbeat. It drummed faster beneath his fingertips, and Tweek squeezed his eyes shut. Second by second, he grew warmer, pressed closer, and he realized almost belatedly that Craig was holding him.

"And I don't take stupid pictures," Craig mumbled.

Tweek choked a laugh at that. Craig knew. That the fight was over and they weren't. That everything was so warm.

"You have at least a hundred pictures of Stripe wearing Etsy outfits you spend too much money on," he whispered against Craig's throat. Tweek let his head tip, resting his temple on Craig's shoulder, his lips still brushing his neck. Craig's pulse picked up there, too, and Tweek felt even warmer.

"And those are great pictures," Craig said as if he were finishing Tweek's sentence. He pulled Tweek a little closer and looked down at the hundreds of pictures scattered across their kitchenette floor. "But not as great as these."


	36. Chapter 36

Stan hadn't felt this nauseated on a regular basis since he first laid eyes on Wendy and fell in love. Literally fell. Went headfirst into his own puke. Cartman loved telling that story, could barely get through it without cackling. Kyle had been there when it happened and never once laughed. Cartman, the Coon. Kyle, his target. Kenny.

Kenny was Mysterion. He'd unzipped that duffel bag he was always carrying around to show Stan his costume stashed away inside it, told him not to worry.  _I'm perfectly in control_ , he'd said, and Stan was glad they were in a hospital, in case he fainted. Kenny, out doing the whole vigilante thing. Fighting crime, stopping fires, going up against armed criminals. Oh, hey, the room was spinning.

He might have been woozy in the moment, but Stan remembered Kenny's request exactly. The brightness in his eyes and urgency in his lowered voice.  _Don't tell Kyle. I...I'll tell him the truth, I promise. This went farther than I ever thought it would. I'll tell him. It should come from me._

Stan, idiot that he was, thought the conversation would come as soon as they got back to the apartment, but Kyle sank into the couch with exhaustion, and it felt good to sit around eating takeout and shooting the breeze the way they used to.

When exactly did that stop? Stan worked late hours, Kenny was out nights at school or work or fighting crime, apparently. Kyle worked all day and brought his office anxieties home with him. It was pretty rare that the three of them sat around eating at their leisure and talking like this. When they were all home at once, Kenny and Kyle had already eaten and put leftovers in the fridge for Stan, or Kenny was running out the door with a half-eaten sandwich and an apple Kyle threw to him from the other end of the kitchen area. Stan knew that he was facing months of late nights at the office, and with all this Cartman nonsense, Kenny and Kyle would be racing around a lot, too. For now, in this moment, in the safety of their little, dorm-looking living room, it was nice just to be.

So when Kyle suggested a movie, crossing his arms over his lap and leaning closer to Kenny, their shoulders brushing, the agreement was immediate. Kyle and Kenny slid down the couch to make room while Stan grabbed his laptop and turned off the lights. They huddled up around Stan's laptop (seventeen inch screens defeated the purpose of having a portable computer but were ideal for streaming movies) and bickered playfully about what they wanted to watch. Finally, somehow, they settled on a Rob Schneider movie that only Kenny seemed excited about. He balanced Stan's laptop on his lap, as was the responsibility of the person in the middle. Stan sprawled out on his cushion beside Kenny and tried to pay attention to the movie, but ten minutes into the mindless humor Kenny kept snickering at, Stan's mind began to wander.

Why was Kenny running around dressed like some superhero? Getting involved in crime-fighting and whatever else. Stan had read Kyle's articles, but those covered only isolated events. What else had Kenny been up to? And how long had "Mysterion" been running around Denver? Why didn't Kenny tell them?

 _This went farther than I ever thought it would._ Stan was sure the look on Kenny's face would haunt him for the rest of his life. Whenever, however Kenny had gotten started, clearly he'd thought that he was going to be helping people. Mysterion didn't seek praise or fanfare the way Cartman was trying to; if it weren't for Kyle, Kenny's heroics might never have come to light for the general population. It was all cyclical. Kenny becomes Mysterion and attracts enough attention to warrant an indie newspaper's coverage. Kyle goes to cover the story and ends up rescued by Mysterion, writes about him, stirs up Cartman. Cartman attacks Kyle to draw out Mysterion, not realizing that Mysterion is Kenny, that Kenny loves Kyle, and that threatening Kyle is Not A Smart Thing To Do.

Did Cartman know Mysterion's identity? Stan couldn't be sure. Cartman was half uneducated bigot, half evil genius. You never knew which side of him was coming at you. Though, Stan had to admit, over the years it was Kenny who had the best track record. Stan didn't get into it with Cartman all that often, and though Kyle got into it with him every day, those fights were about fifty-fifty. Kenny didn't really lose to Cartman. Sure, Cartman talked down to him a whole bunch and sometimes got the upper hand, but Kenny didn't get mad or upset. Without a reaction to validate his gloating, Cartman had no victory, and so even when he won he lost to Kenny. Stan hoped that luck would continue.

A quick glance at the digital clock on the microwave over in the kitchen revealed that they were half an hour into this movie, when Stan could've sworn they were closing in on the last agonizing stretch. Kenny kept laughing, the screen bouncing when his legs moved. Stan angled his body towards Kenny a little more, which went unnoticed since that was the direction of the movie, too, but let his eyes flicker to his friend's face. Kenny's grin was almost manic, illuminated by the faint bluish-white glow of the screen. Stan immediately saw that the movie had little or nothing to do with it.

Kyle wasn't sprawled out on his cushion like Stan was. He was curled up against Kenny, resting his cheek on Kenny's shoulder and watching the movie with a smile that looked less amused and more tired. He kept blinking slowly, his smile twitching when Kenny laughed. It was a contentedness Stan hadn't seen on Kyle's face in a long time, not since before their days of final exams and the pressure of landing an internship. Kyle had tons of internships with the best law offices in Denver, so Stan was never quite sure why he got to be such a basketcase when applying and interviewing for things. Granted, Wendy was like that, too. Sure she wasn't going to get it when there couldn't possibly be anyone more qualified. It was nice to see Kyle relaxed. And, Stan selfishly added, at least halfway to cuddling with Kenny.

The scene in the movie changed, and the glow of light coming off the screen flickered. Stan caught another shadow of movement by the laptop and had to focus for a few seconds to realize that it was Kenny's sleeve moving. Kyle was toying with it, one hand idly tugging folds of fabric between fingers, the other tracing the outline of Kenny's forearm through the sweater. Another glance at Kyle's face, and Stan could tell there was nothing intentional about the motion. Kyle's eyelids drooped, his breathing visibly deep and slow as his chest moved. His fidgeting slowed with sleep as well, both hands tangled in the worn fabric of a well-loved sweater.

Suddenly Stan felt incredibly awkward. He'd been with Kyle all night and was positive he'd witnessed multiple counts of Just Friends behavior, but this was the casual touchy-feely-ness of Relationshipland. Way stronger than Kyle's usual responses to Kenny's affections, the halfhearted smacking of hands tugging at his ushanka, the pleased-but-trying-to-hide-it wriggles from the hold of a bear hug. Seeing it made Stan's arms feel empty and cold without Wendy to wrap themselves around.

"Kenny, you okay?" Kyle mumbled, and Stan could see that tiredness had won out; his eyes were shut.

"Mm-hmm," Kenny said, failing to stifle his goofy grin.

"I can hear your heartbeat," Kyle slurred, shoulders going boneless. Stan could see Kyle falling more heavily on Kenny, who didn't so much as adjust his arm under him, staying solid to carry his weight. "It's...mile-a-minute..."

"All the laughing," Kenny whispered back. "Gets my blood pumping."

Kyle hummed in agreement, so what Kenny said must have been biologically correct. Then Kyle squirmed a little bit, nuzzling closer into Kenny's side. Stan could hear Kenny's breath hitch.

"If you're tired, we can turn off the movie, Ky."

"Mm-mm," Kyle refused. One hand slid higher up Kenny's arm, hooking over his elbow and hugging it close like a teddy bear. Kenny looked down at him, and Stan recognized that same softness that he was now hyper aware of, the expression Kenny reserved especially for looking at Kyle when Kyle wasn't looking back. Kenny cupped his hand around the back of the laptop, the joint where keyboard met screen, and traced the edge of it, fingers dipping into USB ports and over the CD/DVD drive. It had to be killing him not to just wrap his arms around Kyle and pull him in. Never let him go. 

As if on cue, Kenny looked up at Stan and made eye contact, and Stan's face burned. He been caught staring, and not only that, he felt like he'd been caught staring at something private. Something that wasn't his to look at. Kenny didn't seem angry, though; there was something sad in his eyes when they searched Stan's face. 

He couldn't tell Kyle he loved him. The thought struck Stan like lightning. Kenny had two major secrets he was keeping from Kyle: his feelings, and his superhero identity. And he had to tell Kyle that he was Mysterion first, soon, now, because Mysterion had endangered Kyle. And Stan, Kyle's best friend in the world, couldn't say how Kyle would react to learn that the hero he'd been chasing for nearly two months slept in a bed pressed up against the other side of the wall as Kyle's own. One thing was for sure, though; he wasn't going to want to hear those two confessions back-to-back. With everything else going on, two bombshells in quick succession was too much.

Stan hated Mysterion. His confidence revived. For a few hours there, he struggled to align the friend he loved and the, for all intents and purposes, Other Man putting Kyle at risk. But now he was sure. Because Mysterion wasn't exactly Kenny, not as a person. He was a mask. A symbol. A symbol of justice, a symbol of heroism, a symbol of everything Kenny couldn't have when he was just Kenny.

Mysterion ruined everything.


	37. Chapter 37

It was a relief reaching Saturday morning and not having to get up and go to work. Stan could have stayed in bed all day easily and would have if the aroma of pancakes didn't lure him out of his "tool shed," as Kyle called it.

Down the hall and around the protruding refrigerator, Stan caught sight of Kyle in green plaid pajamas that were old five years ago. Sure enough, Kyle was flipping pancakes in the skillet, not even using a spatula, just the flick of the wrist to send it up and over. It was like watching a cartoon, which was awesome. Stan waited until Kyle had replaced the skillet on the stovetop before greeting him, not wanting the pancake to suffer if he startled Kyle.

"Hey, wasn't expecting you up this early," Kyle said, smiling over his shoulder. "I figured you'd take advantage of the weekend and sleep in."

"Yeah, well, that was the plan before I smelled pancakes." Stan leaned against the fridge and watched Kyle flip the pancake again before sliding it out of the skillet and on top of a short stack already in progress. "Where's Kenny?"

"I sent him out for more maple syrup," Kyle said, spooning more batter from a mixing bowl into the skillet.

"You know that normal people don't drown their pancakes in maple syrup, right?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Stan, of course they do."

"Do we have any bananas?" Stan asked, perking up. Kyle shot him a disgusted look but gestured at the fruit bowl at the other end of the counter where two bananas waited. He knew better than to ask Kyle to mix banana sliced in with the batter—not like Stan's mom always did—but Stan could at least cut some up to put on top of his pancakes.

After a minute or so of pancake batter sizzling deliciously in the skillet, Kyle clicked his tongue softly. Stan looked over almost as a reflex; he recognized that sound as Kyle gearing up to say something.

"I wanted to talk to you before Kenny gets back," Kyle started. "About Mysterion."

Stan busied himself getting plates and utensils. "Oh? What about him?" Yeah, totally natural. Smooth.

"I started to tell you the other night. That I think you were right about my wanting Mysterion to be something he's not." Kyle checked the underside of the pancake in the skillet with the spatula. Deeming it suitable, he flipped the pancake over to cook the other side. Over his shoulder, Stan could see that it was indeed an ideal golden-brown. "After you left...I...was thinking about it."

Kyle was omitting a detail from the story, but Stan didn't want to pick another fight calling him on it, especially when Kyle was opening up to him. And admitting he was wrong. That was, like, a once-a-decade kind of thing.

"You know, I think I figured out why I like Mysterion so much," Kyle continued.

"Oh, yeah?"

"He...Don't laugh." Kyle looked over his shoulder again, eyebrows creased. Stan shook his head. "I think...he reminds me a lot of Kenny."

Oh, Jesus, it took every fiber of Stan's being not to laugh at that. Not because it was funny, but because  _are you kidding me, Universe?_ This whole thing was a hot mess.

Kyle swallowed self-consciously and fidgeted with his spatula, still looking at Stan. At first, Stan thought he was probably making some sort of constipated frog face trying not to bust up laughing with  _Mysterion is more like Kenny than you think, dude!_ Then he realized Kyle wasn't done.

"Um. Listen, Stan, this is a secret, okay? Like, a take-it-to-the-grave, zip-your-lips secret. Okay?"

"Okay, dude, I got it." Stan held his hands up in front of him. 

"I think the reason I've been so...invested in Mysterion lately is, um. Well." Kyle shifted the spatula from one hand to the other. "Because he reminds me of Kenny, and I...kind of...like Kenny."

Stan felt his jaw drop. "You like Kenny?"

Kyle spun around to flip his pancake again, abandoning the spatula to flip right in the skillet. "I know. I'm a terrible friend, and it's stupid, and it's  _Kenny_ , and I—"

"Dude, that's awesome!" Stan said. Kyle looked at him mid-flip and didn't move the skillet in time to save the pancake from splatting on the floor.

"What?"

"Well, I mean..." Kenny hadn't told Kyle yet, hadn't told him anything. Stan wasn't going to spill the beans, it wasn't his place. But if Kyle liked Kenny, then Kenny could just reciprocate, and that was one of his two secrets out, and then he could tell Kyle about Mysterion, and Kyle was halfway to figuring that one out anyway. It was all going to work out! "I don't know, dude, you guys are my best friends. And...you know, you kind of have a special relationship. I could see it."

Kyle's face burned. "Well, un-see it. I'm just telling you because I have to tell somebody and get it off my chest."

Stan paused. "You're...not going to pursue this?"

"And make things all weird between Kenny and me? No way." Kyle spooned more batter into the skillet and picked up the fallen pancake to toss into the trash. "I'm going to get over it and move on with my life. I'm not screwing up one of my best friendships over a stupid crush."

"It's not stupid, dude! And you don't know it'll screw things up or make things weird. Maybe you and Kenny will be, you know, you-and-Kenny." Stan hoped he verbalized the difference, even if he couldn't capitalize like Kenny.

Kyle flipped the new pancake and looked over his shoulder to fix Stan with an unreadable stare. "You're really cool with this?"

"Yeah, dude."

"And you think I should tell him?"

"Yeah, dude."

"And you accept full responsibility if everything goes to Hell in a handbasket?"

Stan drew an  _x_ over his heart with his index finger. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Kyle sighed, turned back to his pancake, sighed again. Stan hovered behind him until Kyle finally said, "Okay, I'll tell him."

"Great!" Stan gushed. Kyle squinted at him, and Stan cleared his throat. He took the plate of four pancakes Kyle had already finished and replaced it with an empty plate, took a fork and knife, swiped a slash of butter, and grabbed a banana. "I'll leave you guys to it, go have breakfast in bed, and—"

"Are you  _high_?" Kyle asked, voice pitching up an octave. "I'm not telling him  _now_! I'm not ready, I haven't prepared what I'm going to say...I mean, what, I'm supposed to be all, 'Thanks for getting the maple syrup, and, oh, by the way, wanna make out a little?'"

"I think Kenny would respond to that just fine."

" _Stan._ "

"What?" Stan set his plate down for a second to raid the fridge for cranberry juice. He got a glass to pour some for himself.

"I have to think about what I'm going to say, dude," Kyle said, flipping with the spatula. "And I don't want it to come out of nowhere. It has to be the right moment."

"Oh, Jesus Christ, no. No, no, no, no, no, Kyle, I know you." Stan put down his juice and picked up his banana to wave at Kyle for emphasis. "You'll hem and haw and be a perfectionist and never tell him how you feel. Uh-uh, no."

"I won't hem and haw forever," Kyle said with pursed lips, sliding the next pancake onto the new plate. "I just don't want to come at him without any warning or whatever. You know? Maybe I'll talk to him some night when you stay late at work, or—"

"No, that's stupid, tell him. Tell him now."

"Why are you being crazy about this?" Kyle asked. It was a distraction, Stan knew, but he could feel himself rising to the bait when a key clicked into their front door. Kyle stifled what sounded like a whimper and turned back to making breakfast. Stan looked up in time to see the door swing open and Kenny glide in with a huge bottle of maple syrup under his arm.

"Hey, guys, look who I found in aisle ten," he chirped. Behind him, Butters walked in.

"Well, hey, fellas!"

Stan and Kyle chorused their greetings, and Stan could feel relief at being off the hook radiating off of Kyle. He forced himself not to get too frustrated with Butters; it's not like he strategically went shopping on Saturday morning plotting to run into Kenny. Butters was the kind of guy who used the phrase 'pleased as punch' unironically. Getting mad at him was like getting mad at a box of tissues for only having one left when you got into a sneezing fit.

"I invited Leo up for pancakes," Kenny said, gesturing for Butters to come in. Butters unwound his scarf and unbuttoned his coat, already apologizing for imposing.

"Yeah, of course, Butters, you're always welcome here," Kyle said, laying it on really thick. Stan forced himself not to roll his eyes. Chicken.

"But I must admit, Leo, my intentions were not pure and good like Kyle's home cooking," Kenny said, shutting the door by leaning back on it, bumping it closed with his butt. He grinned in a way that was probably meant to be reassuring, but Stan caught a wolfish edge to his teeth and razorblade eyes. "We need your help with something."

"Oh." The flickers of confusion and worry that passed Butters' readable face settled into delight at the prospect of being helpful. "Well, sure, fellas! Anything I can do to help."

"Butters' help?" Kyle asked Kenny, and Stan was glad he wasn't the only one confused. 

Still barricading the door, long legs stretched out in front of him, hands tucked in the pockets of his parka, Kenny hummed with self-satisfaction. "We're lookin' to kick Cartman's ass, Leo, and we could use a little Chaos."


	38. Chapter 38

Butters was more than a little distraught to hear Kenny casually mention Chaos. It didn't sound like chaos, it sounded like Chaos, capital C, proper noun. Stan and Kyle exchanged baffled looks, Kyle seeming put-out, Stan tired. Then Kenny shrugged off his jacket and wandered around the kitchen area to pour himself a glass of juice and offer some to Butters. Stan carried a plate of pancakes over to the couch and sat down, gesturing for Butters to join him. With a long sigh, Stan peeled the banana on his plate and started slicing it on top of his pancakes. Kyle went back to cooking in the kitchen, squirming away when Kenny tugged on the collar of his old pajamas and flushing when Kenny asked why he wasn't wearing his "cute apron."

Had Butters imagined Kenny calling him out on being Professor Chaos? That happened, right? Hoo boy, it was probably Butters' imagination running away with him again, like his parents always said.

Kenny came over carrying two plates of short stacks of pancakes, a jug of maple syrup under one arm, a container of butter under the other. He managed to put everything down on the wobbly coffee table without dropping or even fumbling one of them. One plate of pancakes he placed in front of Butters. Kenny also proffered the butter and syrup to him first before straightening, his blue eyes sweeping the remaining seats: the couch cushion on Butters' other side, and the chair. He frowned.

Kyle came up from behind him with his own plate of breakfast in one hand and a bowl of fruit in the other. Butters asked if it was okay to take the lone banana, which Kyle emphatically assured him it was, and he followed Stan's lead cutting it up over his short stack. The movement was second nature, the butter knife no threat in his hands; Butters kept his eyes on Kenny, who'd chosen the cushion beside him and was currently drowning his pancakes in syrup. When he ran out of banana to slice, Butters had to look away.

It was then that he realized that Kyle was buttering two slices of toast instead of pancakes. Butters squeaked in alarm.

"Oh, gee whiz, Kyle, did I steal your breakfast?" he looked down at his plate guiltily. "I didn't mean to put you out of your food. I don't need to eat your pancakes—"

"You aren't," Kyle said with a little smile. "I've been playing fast and loose with my diet the last few days. I'm trying to be better about my sugar intake."

The memory of Kyle falling down sick that day of the flower show flashed before Butters' eyes, and he felt worse. Stan bumped his shoulder reassuringly. After a little bit, Butters mumbled agreement and started cutting into his pancakes.

Beside him, Kenny groaned, startling Butters out of his guilt. " _God_ , Kyle, these are so _good_ ," Kenny said around a mouthful-and-a-half of pancake. Kyle exhaled a maybe-laugh through his nose and smiled down at his toast. After an almost respectful pause, Stan echoed the sentiment, minus the groan. Butters took a bite of his pancake and thirded the praise.

"Alright, guys, enough. I get it. Just eat your pancakes." Kyle pretended to be grumpy, but he was obviously pleased with himself, crossing his legs and taking another bite of his breakfast with relish.

Butters figured Kenny would dive right into explaining what the fellas needed his help with, but he understood when Kyle's homemade pancakes took priority. He was a little embarrassed at how quickly he cleaned his own plate; Butters had never been overweight as a kid, but he'd always been a little soft around the middle, something he'd made a conscious effort to change when he hit puberty. Eric said some not-so-nice things to him in the locker room before and after gym class. The other fellas overheard once, and Kyle beat Eric up pretty soundly while Kenny and Stan sat on either side of Butters, assured him there was nothing to be made fun of, and asked if he was okay.

"Hey, Ky?" Kenny asked, voice as syrupy as his pancakes had been. When Butters glanced over, it looked like Kenny had all but licked his plate clean, not a drop of maple syrup in sight. "There wouldn't happen to be any more batter, would there?"

Kyle hummed thoughtfully, putting his in-progress breakfast plate on the coffee table, which swayed under the extra weight. "I think I have enough for one or two more." Kenny grinned and held out his plate. With a wry look, Kyle took it and climbed back out of his chair to return to the kitchen area. Kenny jumped up after him and carried the fruit bowl over.

"Ky, can you put the blueberries right in the batter?"

"Yes, I can put blueberries in the batter," Kyle drawled, taking the fruit bowl. Kenny sighed contentedly and draped himself over Kyle's shoulders as he turned the stove back on and checked his batter.

"You're my favorite," Kenny said, his voice muffled by what Butters assumed was Kyle's floppy hair. "Don't tell Stan."

"Normally Stan would be offended," Stan said loudly, "but having also experienced Kyle's delicious pancakes, Stan understands."

Kenny muttered something else Butters couldn't make out, but Kyle laughed and elbowed Kenny lightly. Stan rolled his eyes and put his plate on the coffee table, too; Butters was beginning to worry that the poor thing would just collapse in on itself. He kept his plate in his lap.

A few minutes later, Kenny returned to his seat carrying his extra two pancakes triumphantly. Kyle yawned behind him and slumped into the chair sideways, folding his legs over the armrest.

"So," Kenny said, pouring more syrup onto his pancakes. "A lot of this is guesswork, but let me paint a picture for you." Butters exchanged looks with Stan and Kyle, but both shook their heads, not understanding what Kenny was setting up. "Cartman came to you with a proposal about performance art, or community theater, or something, and dressed you up as Professor Chaos. Then he told you to go to the mall, where it turns out nobody was expecting you, and wailed on you for real instead of play-acting."

"What?" Kyle said, sitting up straighter. His feet flapped where they dangled over the armrest. "Butters, that was you?"

"In the aluminum foil helmet?" Stan added, sounding far more deadpan.

Butters flushed. "Yup...that was me, and it went just like you said, Kenny."

"Thought so." Kenny took a bite of his pancake, oozing syrup and gooey blueberry juice, and he closed his eyes while he chewed. "Kyle, seriously, Stan's not even a _close_ second-favorite."

"I'm right here, dude."

"Anyway," Kenny said, and Butters sneaked a glance at Kyle, whose face was redder than his hair, before snapping to attention. "This probably isn't new information for you, Leo, but Cartman isn't playing superhero for the sake of acting. He's trying to make a name for himself as a real vigilante, but he hasn't got the stuff to follow it up. So he's creating crime to fight instead."

Butters' heart sank. "I...does that make me a bad guy?"

"No," Kenny assured him without a lick of hesitation. "But, listen, Leo. We have reason to believe that Cartman was behind the fire at the expo and an attack on Kyle's office."

"A what?" Butters gasped. "Oh, gee, Kyle, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, though a friend of mine is in the hospital." Kyle's face hardened. "We really want to get the person who did this, Butters. And we know it's Cartman, but we need more proof."

"If you could come forward as a witness, or if you have any evidence to tie Cartman to the Coon or his crimes, we'd really appreciate it, Leo," Kenny said. He continued eating his pancakes as if they were talking about the Broncos or the weather, while Butters sat in stunned silence.

"Well, I know a little bit about Eric's Coon activities," Butters started. The others all leaned closer.

"I mean, you can confirm that Cartman is the Coon," Stan said. "That alone is huge."

"But..." Butters hesitated. "But I'm Professor Chaos. Won't I get in trouble, too?"

"Why would an innocent actor get in trouble?" Kenny asked, but Kyle made a thoughtful sound that swung everyone's attention to him.

"Well, Cartman tied Chaos' name to a few of his stunts. Graffiti, those weird flyers. They didn't get the publicity he wanted, but they were out there. We'd need proof that Chaos' calling cards were from Cartman, not Butters." Kyle rubbed his chin. "In addition to that, it's possible that Butters could face minor charges on disruption, since the Coon-Chaos showdown wasn't green-lit by the mall. Now, _that_ we can combat," he said quickly, perhaps noticing Butters' lower lip quivering. "You can bring forward proof of your involvement in community theater. I know you were involved in a few shows in college, so you have that background. And with a few character witnesses to vouch for you, it wouldn't be hard to strike any suspicion of criminal charges. If you have any physical proof that you believed it was just a show, like a text or an e-mail, that would be ideal."

Gosh. Butters was so busy reading all of Kyle's great writing in the newspaper that he forgot Kyle's other major was pre-law. Thinking up all those legal thingamabobs and knowing just what to do to prove innocence. Kyle was so smart.

"Mostly he asked me in person," Butters said, "since we're roommates." Kyle nodded, a little disappointed. "B-But I do have his e-mail with his design sketches for Professor Chaos' costume."

Kyle's brown eyes glowed. "Shut up, that is  _awesome_. Can you show me?"

Butters pulled up his e-mail on his phone and skimmed through until he found the designs. Eric's text was concise:  _This will be your costume. Find materials and make it yourself. We don't have time for a rehearsal. I've attached a script as well. Don't improvise._

"Are you kidding me?" Kyle whooped when Butters handed over his phone. "This is everything! A description of Professor Chaos' character—"The Coon's Nemesis"—a made-up back story...he even titled the document 'Coon vs Chaos: Clash at the Mall' and labeled it with one act." Kyle all but shrieked with laughter. "Fatass is  _dead in the water!_ "

"So, I should just forward you that e-mail?" Butters said hopefully. "Will that help?"

"You'll have to come in and testify, would be my guess," Stan said, eyes shifting to Kyle on the word  _testify_ as if for confirmation that he was using law's most basic term correctly. Kyle nodded.

"It's true, Butters. This e-mail wasn't sent to us, so we'd need you to vouch for it to submit it as evidence. It would also help if you could testify in words or a written affidavit anything and everything you know about him." Kyle was all smiles, but kind of scary-like. "We have eyewitness accounts of the Coon at the expo attempting to put out the fires, though we can't prove he started them...and the only clue tying Cartman to the attack on our office was an antisemitic slur written on the brick he broke our window with." Kyle heaved a sigh. "We don't know if there'll be enough evidence to pin either of those on him, but this is a good starting point."

Butters paused. "Kyle...?" he asked softly. A ripple of cowardice had thrummed through his heart, and he needed Kyle to tell him it would be okay. "D'ya...d'ya think this would affect my job at all?"

"Your job?" Kyle asked. His eyebrows lifted slightly, but he didn't sound too thrown off. 

"Well, see, I was real lucky to get a substitute position the September after graduation," Butters said carefully, "but work's kind of spotty because it's just subbing. There's a rumor that one of the kindergarten teachers is trying to get pregnant, though, and if she ends up on maternity leave, they might need a long-term sub or even a new teacher next year." He looked down at his hands, too ashamed to meet Kyle's eyes; Butters could tell from the slight parting of his lips that Kyle could see where he was going with this. "If I came forward...I mean, could I be charged with disruptin', or being a...a vigilante's accomplice? D'ya think something like this could go on my permanent record and keep me from teachin'?"

Kyle didn't answer right away, and that just about sent Butter's heart down to his tummy. Maybe even lower. His toes.

"I don't know for sure," Kyle admitted finally. "I think there's enough evidence to clear your name, and worst case scenario, you can always set up a bargain for leniency."

"A...a what?"

"Offer to testify in exchange for lenient punishment or even immunity against charges." Kyle rubbed his chin again. "I didn't go too much into it in my classes, so I'd have to do a little more research. In your case, Butters, honestly, your worst quote-unquote crime is a speck of dust in the Denver legal landscape. I wouldn't worry about it. But I also don't know much about what disqualifies teachers, or what expectations are in the public school system for employees. I can do some research, if you want, or you can show me your faculty handbook?"

"It's not that I don't want to help you fellas," Butters insisted. "I know it's the right thing to do, and I'm being selfish, but..."

"Don't even worry about it, Leo," Kenny said. "We could use your help, but we'd never ask you to screw your career for us."

"Cartman's always going to be pulling stunts that'll turn up new evidence," Stan pointed out. "Right now, we've already got some pieces of the puzzle. We could lead an investigation his way."

"It'd be a lot harder for him to weasel out of it with your testimony and this evidence," Kyle said, handing Butters back his phone. Butters fidgeted with it before slipping it into his pocket. "I'm sorry, Butters, I know I'm being tough on you, but..."

"I know. I know, fellas, it's just..." Butters hesitated. "Is it okay if I think on this a little? I can go through my handbook, do some research, I..." He wrung his hands. "I thought I was helping Eric put on a show for little kids. It was going to be so much fun to pretend to be a villain. You know, I've done a few plays in class when I sub, and I always like doing dragon voices and things when I read picture books aloud...I was really confused when I showed up and nobody was there to watch."

Stan put a hand on his shoulder. "We know you come from a good place, dude."

"I don't want to be kicked out of teachin' before I've even really taught," Butters mumbled, clasping his hands in his lap. "But I don't want to shirk my responsibility, either."

"You don't have to make a decision right this minute, dude," Stan said. "Listen, you've been a huge help just by confirming our theories, right? We can keep investigating with the clues you gave us, and if you can testify, that's great. If you can't, you've already helped. Promise."

Kenny echoed the sentiment, and Kyle nodded. Butters knew Kyle was disappointed in him, even if he was also kind of understanding. That stung. It was like his parents disappointed in him all over again. He half expected Kyle to ground him when he opened his mouth, but all Kyle said was, "Anyone want any more fruit or juice? I think I'll start putting things back in the fridge..."


	39. Chapter 39

Even though he'd only been on campus a few times, Kenny seemed to know where he was going. Kyle and Stan followed as he led the way to the gymnasium where the fashion show had been set up. The event was public after all, so there was no need to sneak in. There were even students giving directions and handing out programs.

"Good thing we got here early, though," Kenny said, taking an extra program and slipping it into his duffel bag. "I want to get good seats."

Kyle smiled over at Stan while Kenny's attention was diverted. Over Stan's shoulder, he caught sight of a pillar of blue, and his smile dropped along with his jaw.

"What the...?"

"Hey, dudes!" Clyde bubbled, jogging a few steps ahead of Craig, the blue pillar. Tweek and Token flanked Craig and shared Kyle's surprised expression. "What are you doing here?"

"Hey, you're all here," Stan said when he turned. Kenny looked up with delight; Kyle could practically read his expression:  _You all came to praise my sister!_

"Craig's sister's one of the models," Clyde said, jamming his hands into his pockets and grinning. "We were all recruited to show our support."

"You came of your own free will," Craig corrected expressionlessly. Kyle glanced over and had to do a double-take; Craig and Tweek were holding hands.

"Yeah, there was totally no unspoken threat if we didn't adjust our schedules accordingly. Not like you loomed over us and didn't blink while extending the invitation," Token said lightly, toying with his iPad. Tweek twittered an almost silent laugh, tugging at Craig's hand. "And not just us..." Token turned his iPad around, and Jimmy's bruised-but-healing face smiled out at everyone.

"W-Well, hey, f-f-fellas!"

"Jimmy!" Kyle and Stan crowded the iPad. "How are you feeling?" Kyle asked.

"Like a million b-b-buhh...baah...bucks."

"Your sister's in the show, too?" Kenny was asking Craig. "So's mine! Well, her designs, anyway."

"Oh, yeah?" Craig asked, sounding less than interested. He opened the program as best he could one-handed, never letting go of Tweek. "Right here...um..." Craig examined the program for a minute. "Huh."

"What?" Kenny asked, looking down at his own program. He paused. "Huh."

"What? 'Huh' what?" Kyle asked. Kenny tilted his program so Kyle could read the line he was pointing to:  _Ruby Tucker modeling designs by Karen McCormick._ "Huh! Small world!"

"Yeah," Kenny agreed, turning the program back to himself. "It really should read 'Karen McCormick's designs, modeled by Ruby Tucker,' though."

"It really shouldn't," Craig said.

"Shall we go in and grab some seats?" Clyde asked brightly, either not reading the mood or trying to beat the older brother bro-down to the punch. The group agreed and let Kenny, Craig, and, by proxy, Tweek, take the lead. The gym had been set up with a stage at one end, a runway protruding from it, and huge curtains hung on either side of the stage to partition off a makeshift backstage. Folding chairs lined up around the three open sides of the runway and went all the way back to the bleachers. Kenny whispered in Kyle's ear as they moved towards the front that Karen told him they couldn't use the auditorium because they needed the runway for a proper show. 

The older brothers elbowed their way into the closest row available to attendees outside of faculty and students. The row had just enough chairs to seat seven people, with a lone mom taking up one spot at the end. Craig geared up his penetrating stare, but Kenny breezed by him and charmed the mom out of her seat by telling her this was his baby sister's first fashion show. Kyle shook his head in disbelief when the mom cooed and moved to the row behind them so they could all sit together. Kenny grabbed Kyle's hand and tugged him into the seat next to his, and Kyle prayed he wasn't oozing sweat when he took the seat, his knee bumping Kenny's. Stan plopped into the seat next to him, followed by Tweek and Craig, Clyde, and Token at the other end so he could hold up Jimmy on the iPad without blocking people's view.

The gym filled up quickly even though they were early. They chatted among themselves, leaning over one another and passing Token's iPad back and forth to keep Jimmy in the loop. Kenny suggested Kyle write a story on the show, which Kyle said he'd leave to the student newspaper.

Soon enough, their chatter was broken up with the lights overhead flashing a warning. An older woman strode out onto the runway with a wireless microphone, and the students and faculty in the front rows started a round of applause. When the noise had settled down, the woman introduced herself as Dr. McDaniels, the chair of the fashion design program, and announced the show and thanked the various classes that contributed to the organization of the event. She listed off the student designers alphabetically, and Kenny whooped and whistled so loudly when Karen's name was called that Kyle couldn't hear the person who came after her in the list. He shushed Kenny loudly and received only a grin in return. Embarrassed, Kyle glanced around the auditorium, catching a few people in the audience giggling or pointedly looking away.

"Without further ado," McDaniels said, gesturing to the stage behind her, "let the fashion show begin!"

Kenny's whooping still rose above the volume of the audience's collective cheer. When Kyle glanced to his other side, he saw Craig clapping fervently, expression unreadable as ever.

For a student production, the fashion show was impressive. There were flashing lights, techno music, and an animated emcee narrating notes on fabric and design as the models strutted down the runway. Kyle had no idea what any of it was, but he could vaguely hear Kenny's thoughtful sounds of recognition beside him at different materials used.

When Ruby Tucker first hit the runway, Kyle wouldn't have known she was Craig's sister. Her skin was just shy of sickly pale, with wide green eyes and a flame of sleek orange hair twisted up at the nape of her neck. If it weren't for her insane height, he'd never think she shared DNA with his bronze-skinned, dark-haired, dark-eyed coworker. Maybe they each favored a different side of the family? 

Kyle remembered Karen's saying her model roommate was mostly legs, and she wasn't wrong. Karen had combined this fact with her brother's sensibilities, apparently, because Ruby strode out in a shimmery lime green flapper dress that cut dangerously high up her leg, with some kind of studded belt around her waist. The fringe didn't hide the hem length by any means. Karen had also put her model in strappy shoes with pencil-thin heels, and Kyle watched holding his breath, afraid she'd fall.

Ruby reached the end of the runway and struck her modeling poses like a statue, her expression fiercely impassive. Maybe she and Craig were related after all. She turned on her heel and strode back down the runway. Kyle glanced over at Craig, whose expression hadn't changed, though when a male voice from behind them whistled, Craig turned fast enough that a film score would have given him a scare chord.

The models cycled through three times, with short, medium, and long dresses. Kyle had to admit that Kenny had a point; Karen's designs stood out the most on the runway, from her wild fabric colors to the sheer amount of bling she used. Matched with Ruby's stoicism and legs that were on display even in the "long" gown, Karen's dresses looked ready for somewhere between a rave and a red carpet. Their biased row of supporters wasn't the only one noticing. The applause rammed up every time Ruby made her entrance at the end of the runway, to the point where the emcee was getting drowned out.

Kenny was in Heaven.

At the end of the show, McDaniels returned to the stage and announced all of the designers and models by name. Each designer got to walk the runway beside their model and take a bow. When Karen, small and soft in a flowy top and crisp slacks, came down the runway with Ruby in all her sharp tallness, their entire row jumped up to applaud. Kyle almost felt bad until he realized that most of the room was standing with him.

Once all of the designers had their moment in the spotlight—Kyle still couldn't hear the name of the guy alphabetically after Karen—McDaniels took to the microphone again.

"At this time, at the end of our program, we'd like to note that our faculty members have been observing and recording their thoughts throughout the show and feel that this is one of the strongest runway shows this course has ever presented. Let's give these students another round of applause!" The audience acquiesced. "On top of that, the last piece of our show's puzzle isn't listed on your programs, but our attending faculty members every year score the designs and compare their rankings to recognize the top design of the event. I have in my hand the judge's choice."

McDaniels made a show of opening an envelope. Beside Kyle, Kenny leaned forward, the soles of his boots squeaking on the floor.

"Congratulations to our judge's choice design for the fall semester, by Miss Karen Mc—"

The mic died, and so did the lights. A gasp burst through the crowd. Kenny's chair squeaked, and Kyle felt him stand up beside him.

"Congratulations, congratulations..." A voice came out of the speakers that wasn't McDaniels'. Kyle could practically feel his blood curdle at the familiarity of it. "But wouldn't it be nice to recognize someone who's done something a little more meaningful to the people of Denver than cut up some old sheets and staple them together?"

In the darkness, sparklers glimmered on on the stage, outlining an odious silhouette at the back of the runway. On cue, a spotlight shone down, and sure enough, in full, foolish Coon getup, there was Cartman. Kyle didn't know how he hadn't realized sooner; mask or not, it was clearly Fatass.

"I know you're here, Mysterion," Cartman continued, voice booming from the speakers, "and I think you'll agree it's time we ended this. Are you a criminal mastermind or a coward? No matter. You've turned the people's backs on their hero, the Coon, for the last time."

Cartman pointed out into the audience, turning slowly from left to right, his finger sweeping the stunned crowd before him. There was no way he could see individual faces in the dark, yet Kyle was certain his finger lingered on their aisle.

"Calling you out, Mysterion," Cartman said. "And don't try anything funny, because, you know..."

He threw his cape over his shoulder flamboyantly, and what Kyle thought were sparklers crackled and grew, illuminating the darkness. Around him, people were up on their feet and shrieking for the exit. Kenny beside him called for his sister in a panic. "Karen?  _Karen_?"

Craig was on his feet a second later, climbing over the vacated folding chairs in front of them. Kyle heard him tripping and stumbling in the dark, then caught sight of a bluish glow. He must've had a penlight or something.

" _Ruby_?" he bellowed, and a second later, Kyle could see the blue light coming back towards them. It flickered off when Craig was a few feet away. Even in the dark, Kyle could make out a body slung over each of Craig's shoulders.

"I can walk, you know," a girl's voice droned from his left side.

"Kenny?" the right side squeaked, and Kyle jumped up, recognizing Karen's voice.

"Get them out of here," Kenny growled, and Craig didn't so much as hesitate to start moving.

"Tweek?" he called over his shoulder, and Tweek scrambled after him, reaching for him in the dark. Their whole row followed suit, Clyde especially struggling, Token trying to light a path with his iPad, Jimmy gone from the screen. Stan pulled on Kyle's arm.

"C'mon, dude, this is our chance to catch Cartman in the act!"

"Kenny," Kyle called over the din. The sparklers, or whatever they were, flared, sending up more light in the gym, and Kyle could see that Kenny was standing at his full height, no slouch, glaring daggers at Cartman. "We should go...with Karen."

"No," Kenny said. "I'm ending this."

"Kenny, it's okay," Kyle said, grabbing both of Kenny's arms and swinging him around to face him. "Mysterion is here. Cartman said so! Mysterion will stop him. You should be with your sister."

The light flickered down again, hiding Kenny's face beneath a blanket of darkness. His muscles didn't relax under Kyle's fingers. In fact, his whole body was tense. Stan tugged at the back of Kyle's jacket.

"Kyle, come on," Stan said, voice pitching up.

"What do you mean, 'Kyle, come on'?" Kyle snapped back. "We're not leaving without Kenny!"

Kenny stepped forward. Kyle could barely see his outline, but he felt him come closer, Kenny's arms under his forearms, bracing him. "Kyle, go," he said. "Go with Stan, get out of the gym. You'll be safe."

"What, you're not  _coming_? I just told you, Mysterion—"

"Kyle." The light flared up again so Kyle could make out half of Kenny's face, the hard line of his mouth and an aching sadness in his eyes that Kyle had never seen. "I'm ending this. Cartman's stupid, dangerous stunts, and...all the rest of the bullshit." Kenny's arms wrapped around Kyle in hug, and Kyle's eyebrows pulled together.

"What—?"

"I should've told you the truth from the beginning," Kenny said, breath puffing against Kyle's forehead. Then he leaned closer, his lips grazing Kyle's ear. Kyle couldn't help the little gasp that escaped him with Kenny so close.

Or the way his breath stopped short when Mysterion's gravelly voice whispered in his ear, "I'm sorry, Kyle."


	40. Chapter 40

As unsettling as it was for Stan to hear that gritty superhero voice Kenny put on, so different from his usual cheery pitch, the sound all but put Kyle into shock. Kenny darted off into the bleachers with his duffel bag, and Stan clapped both hands on Kyle's shoulders and steered him through the dark to the exit.

The bright lights on in the corridor burned Stan's eyes to blinking. More than that, he realized, the hallway was full of cops in uniform, directing traffic and speaking with other attendees who'd evacuated.

"Kyle, over here!" Stan's attention followed the sound of Clyde's voice off to the side of the hallway. The bullpen, Karen, and Ruby stood apart from the other evacuees, an older cop with a bushy red mustache hovering nearby.

"This is Kyle Broflovski," Token said as Kyle and Stan joined them. "Kyle, this is Sergeant Yates."

"So you're the Mysterion guy, huh?" Yates shook Kyle's hand. Any worry Stan might have had about Kyle's stupor disappeared with the look Kyle cut to the officer.

"I've covered Mysterion pieces as part of my reporting, yes."

"Where's...?" Clyde trailed off, looking from Kyle to Stan. _Kenny_ , Stan thought, finishing the question.

"Mysterion is in there now," Kyle said with composure Stan admired. "He's fighting off that arsonist from the Fall Floral Festival." Stan's eyes flickered to Karen, whose expression was stone. Clyde might still be piecing together the absence of Kenny and appearance of Mysterion, but she clearly wasn't. This might not even be news to her.

"We know," Yates said with a nod. "We're moving civilians and blocking student access on all sides. As soon as we've got the place surrounded, we'll move in to back up Mysterion."

Craig, of all people, flashed a thumbs-up at this plan. Kyle had been right, Stan thought; the cops  _did_ like their by-the-book vigilante.

"How were you guys able to respond so quickly?" Stan asked Yates. "The show was disrupted, what, ten minutes ago?"

"Tip-off from a citizen," Yates said carefully, eyes scanning the circle of reporters around him. "Kid came in this morning with evidence and testimony on the criminal's activity, tipped us off that this fashion show was his next target. He didn't know much about this guy's plan for today, but he got us here and got us a case." What might have been a smile skirted across Yates' face. "See, this is why we're backing up Mysterion...he gives people the courage to speak up."

Warmth flooded Stan. Butters. Butters had come through. He turned his grin to Kyle, whose shoulders slumped with relief but whose expression remained wary.

"What can we do to help?" Kyle asked.

"Evacuate," Yates answered. "We'll be able to talk to you after, but we're getting this operation on the road now."

"No," Kyle said, "that's not enough."

"Kyle, dude, the cops can handle this," Stan said.

"Yeah, and Myseterion's here." Clyde's light brown eyes lit up. "He's gonna get that guy who hurt Jimmy."

"And maybe have a one-man piñata party," Craig said, almost wistfully. Okay, Stan thought, this guy had definitely figured it out.

"I'm not leaving him," Kyle said, crossing his arms.

"Me neither," Karen agreed. Ruby glanced over at her before nodding in stoic agreement.

Hypocrisy became Kyle, of course. "Karen, you should evacuate. Kenny'd kill us if anything happened to you."

Karen's eyes locked on Kyle. "I could say the same to you."

The faintest shade of pink hinted along the curve of Kyle's high cheekbones. "What can we do to help?" he asked again.

"The lights," Ruby said. She spoke with the same monotone as her brother. "That guy cut the power, but we set up the stage. We can get the lights back on for you."

"Tell us where it is," Craig said. Ruby rolled her eyes at the protective demand.

"'Us' being the cops," Yates added, though Craig towered over him and was far more broad-shouldered. Stan would rather take on Yates than Craig any day of the week. When Kyle and Karen kept their hard stare on him, the officer adjusted the walkie-talkie  hooked into his belt. "...The fewer people the better. I'll take one or two of you, and even that's an absurd risk."

"Me," Kyle said, and Yates shrugged as if that were a given. Stan guessed even this older cop could see he was fighting a losing battle getting between Kyle and Kenny.

Stan decided to make himself that kind of undeniable, too. "And me," he said. Yates' eyes appraised him, and Stan instinctively rolled his shoulders back to make himself appear stronger. An asset.

"Right." Yates blew air out the side of his mouth. "Tell us."

Nobody was going to challenge Kyle, and Stan was relieved that nobody was going to break up their team, either. Stan, Kyle and Kenny. The golden trio, taking down Cartman. How else could this story end?

Karen gave them directions on coming up into the gym through a back entrance. "If you go up, it's the balcony," she said, "but you want to go behind the stairs. It's used as an equipment room, but the lights can be activated from switches in there as well as out in the gym itself."

"That way, Cartman won't see us coming," Stan said. Yates glanced over, and Stan realized it was the first time anyone had said his name aloud. Yates would be questioning them later for sure.

"Kyle," Tweek said. Kyle and Stan looked up, Yates passing behind them. Tweek pulled at strands of hair on either side of his head, tugging them down below his ears. "Don't, ngh...worry. Mysterioncan'tdie."

The color drained from Kyle's face. "Wh-what?"

"It's okay," Tweek sputtered. "Mysterion can't die,  _gah!_ "

"Mysterion's not going to die," Stan cut in, grabbing Kyle by the elbow. He dragged Kyle behind him as they followed Yates outside in pursuit of the second entrance into the gym.


	41. Chapter 41

Kyle and Stan followed Yates outside. The police were already by the door outside the gym.

"Can you believe this many cops showed up over Cartman?" Stan asked.

"Good," Kyle said. "He can't worm his way out of this. No kill like overkill."

"Glad to hear you sounding like yourself," Stan said. Kyle gave him a questioning look, but Stan's attention was elsewhere. Up ahead, Yates was speaking with a roly-poly cop in sunglasses.

"Barbrady, you go in and activate the lights," Yates was saying. "These kids'll show you the way. We're going to use the lights as a distraction. Hoping that it'll catch the guy off-guard, maybe even blind him temporarily. Then our guys can go in and nab him."

"Is he just...by himself in the gym?" Barbrady wrung his hands in a way that reminded Kyle of Butters. "Does he have any hostages?"

"No hostages, but he's in there with Mysterion."

"Oh, good!" Barbrady said, face clearing like the sun reappearing from behind clouds. "We don't have anything to worry about, then!"

"Cops don't  _worry_ , Barbrady!" Yates said, wiping his brow with an exasperated sigh. Barbrady stuttered to attention.

Kyle felt himself smile on reflex. It was amazing the impact a single person could have on a community, how one voice could urge many into sound. Mysterion really was a symbol to the people, and not just one of justice. One of hope, and one of fearlessness.

Kenny was Mysterion. All this time, it had been him. Shame burned in Kyle's chest for not realizing; how stupid was he to get close to Mysterion so many times and never know it was Kenny? Sure, Mysterion  _reminded_ him of Kenny, because they were the same damn person. How ridiculous Kyle must have sounded gushing on and on to Kenny about Mysterion. And what did Kenny think of what Kyle said to him while he wore the mask? That night on the balcony took on a whole other level of humiliation.

Stan pulled the door open and let Kyle and Barbrady in first, taking up the rear. It was pitch black in the stairwell, and Kyle used his cell phone to cast a faint light to guide their way. A door to the right must have led to the gym. Kyle could hear crashing from behind it and hesitated, reaching out for the door, for Kenny behind it. Cartman couldn't hurt Kenny. There was no way.

 _The Coon had claws_ , Clyde had said... _like, silver hooks on his fingers._

 _Mysterion can't die._ What a curious thing to say. What made Tweek sound so sure, so steady, when he said that? Had Kyle's own projection of Mysterion as an untouchable superhero tainted everyone's view of him? Mysterion was a man. Kenny was a man who could bruise and bleed.

"Kyle," Stan whispered. "Keep going."

Kyle pried his fingers away from the door keeping him from Kenny and led the others around to the back of the stairs to another door labeled  _Equipment._ He stepped back and was bemused to see that Barbrady did as well, letting Stan open the door. Stan grunted softly with the effort, and Kyle guessed it was heavier than the door leading in from outside; he tried to picture petite Karen in her flowy clothes opening it, then considered that Karen could probably (definitely) kick his ass six ways to Sunday. After a lifetime of seeing her as an honorary little sister, he knew better than to cross her and her sewing needles without factoring Kenny's older brother instincts in at all.

Stan got the door open, and Kyle handed his phone over to Barbrady, who climbed into the equipment room, side-stepping basketballs and weights, and turned the glow along the wall.

Kyle couldn't help inching back to the door that led to the gym. He pressed his ear to the door, hoping to hear something more telling. Like Cartman pleading for mercy. Please let it be Cartman pleading for mercy.

_The Coon has claws._

Kyle closed his eyes. The scenery didn't change; it was pitch black in the corridor, after all. Yet the simple act of closing his eyes gave him a stronger sense of awareness. His ears pricked up, his mouth watered. His hands slid up the door in search of the handle. He could hear other officers behind them coming in from outside as quietly as possible. Readying themselves to charge in and back up Mysterion. Kenny.

His senses dulled to the present and pulled Kyle into the past, into his last memory of closing his eyes so tightly. There on the balcony. Kyle, warm in Kenny's sweatshirt, whispering Kenny's name without knowing why. Wrapped up in Kenny without realizing it.

Oh, God. Kenny was Mysterion. He'd seen Kyle wearing his own sweatshirt, had been the one Kyle had all but thrown himself at, had heard Kyle say his name. Had heard Kyle want him.

No wonder Kyle's brain had jumped back to that first kiss. It wasn't correcting, it was remembering. Bringing Kyle to a very different stairwell from the one where he stood now, recalling Kenny's gentle hands and soft lips. Even Kyle's brain had figured it out. Had Kyle just not wanted to see it?

 _You are so fixated on 'Mysterion,' so_ obsessed  _with this fantasy hero you've embellished in your mind, that you can't even see what's right in front of you._

Did  _Stan_ know? He had to. So much for Kyle being the smartest guy anybody knew. He couldn't see anything, not even his hand in front of his face. His fingers and toes curled in mortification remembering how he'd twined himself around Mysterion on the balcony, given himself over with ease. Sighing into him, following his lead. Kissing Kenny in the dark.

Kyle's eyes opened, the darkness of the backs of his lids shifting to the darkness of the stairwell. Faintly, far away, he could see the glow of his cell phone peeking out from the other doorway, Barbrady mumbling to himself. If Kyle's senses were more in the present, he could make out the words, but there was no pulling them to this moment now. His arms trembled with the memory of being wrapped around Kenny's shoulders, his knees turning to jelly like they did then. His lips cold with want, with need, now that they'd felt tenderness and sweetness and warmth. All the things Kyle had demanded when he kissed Mysterion.

All the things Kenny gave him when he'd kissed back.

"Ah," Barbrady whispered. "Found it! Oh, wait, no, that's..."

Kyle turned the door handle and pulled it back as quietly as he could. It was heavy, but didn't creak with noise. The cops behind him tensed, and Kyle could feel one of them trying to nudge him out of the way. He should. He should back down, let the cops arrest Cartman, keep himself safe. Instead, Kyle slipped into the gym, letting the cop behind him catch the door instead.

"Kyle!" Stan hissed; Kyle sensed more than heard Stan padding after him in the dark, edging along the gym's perimeter. They were behind the stage, which explained why Kyle hadn't noticed a second entrance into the gym earlier. From the other side of the curtain came the sounds of punching and kicking, grunts and shouts.

"Why are you doing this?" Kenny growled. Kyle repressed the shiver that came with hearing Mysterion's voice again. "This isn't heroism, Cartman. None of your stunts have helped a single person. What could possibly make you think this is a good idea?"

"I'm living the vigilante's life, Kenny," Cartman growled back, sounding more foolish by the syllable. "To clean out the trashcan of society, I've chosen to become more than a man."

"Save your taglines for the cops." More blows and grunts of pain followed, and Kyle exhaled slowly. Kenny was winning. He inched along the edge of the stage, his eyes adjusting to the new darkness. Cartman's sparklers sent a faint glow from the other side of the stage, and Kyle ducked down and pulled Stan with him to avoid casting shadows. Crouching, he couldn't see the stage, but Kyle followed Kenny's and Cartman's shadows stretching out along the floor and onto the folding chairs. They'd scuffle together, then pull back, Mysterion a pillar, the Coon a boulder. It was clear watching their projections that Kenny was doing more damage, but Cartman literally threw his weight around to knock Kenny off-center.

"Why are  _you_ doing this, Kenny?" Kinny. Tinny. Cheap. Kyle grit his teeth. He shifted from resting in a crouch to kneeling and crawled along the edge of the stage. Stan followed him, slipping once on his knees. Kyle held his breath, but it didn't sound like Kenny or Cartman had heard them. "Are you stealing from the rich to give to the poor? Is that how you're putting your sister through school? Because she sure isn't getting any scholarships with those rags she crapped out."

Mysterion's shadow grew with Kenny's furious growl, towering over the Coon. Kyle paused to watch the shadow of Mysterion's fist arc down, the Coon's arms crossing over his head to block, Mysterion spinning, cape flying, his foot shooting out and catching the Coon solidly in the stomach. The Coon groaned, but his hands dropped and caught Mysterion's boot. He'd aimed his kick where Cartman had the most padding. Kyle tensed when Cartman yanked Kenny's ankle back, pulling the stage out from under him. A snap reverberated off of the gym's far walls and high ceiling. Mysterion fell onto his back and stifled a howl of pain. Kyle put a hand over his mouth to close off his gasp.

"Do you get off on stealing the title of 'Denver's Greatest Hero,' Kenny?" Cartman pressed. His arms shifted in his shadow, turning down and twisting Kenny's leg with it. The shuddering sound Kenny made turned Kyle's stomach. He got back down to crawling, rounding the edge of the stage and tucking into the corner where it met the runway. "Huh? You think you're hot shit?"

With sight of neither the actual people or their shadows from this spot, Kyle could only go on sound. A thud, probably Kenny's leg dropping to the floor. A stomp, a crack, a groan of pain. Beside Kyle, Stan was shaking, and Kyle had to clap a hand on his shoulder to keep him from getting up. They exchanged looks and both turned at the same time, slowly coming up from their kneeling to look over the lip of the stage. Mere feet away, Cartman hovered over Kenny, the sparklers sending up blades of light cutting the curtain, creating a cave of shadows that curled over Cartman's head like claws.

Cartman leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Kenny's. "Or is the Mysterion act from a whole other level of twisted selfishness, huh, Kenny? Are you a symbol of justice, or is that just what you're calling yourself so you can get a piece of Kyle?"

Kenny went impossibly still. Kyle wished he could see his face, read his expression.

"Kyle sure does _looove_ Mysterion," Cartman goaded. Kyle watched Kenny's hands curl into fists. "So maybe that's it, huh,  _Kinny_? No money, minimum-wage job, piss-poor education—totally invisible. Throw on a cape, and all of a sudden, you're all he talks about. That what this is all about?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle saw Stan looking at him. When their eyes met, Kyle recognized guilt in Stan's expression that he'd never quite seen before. He scanned Stan's face for confirmation, for a sign that what Cartman was saying wasn't totally off-base, that Stan knew. For accusation because Kyle was so obsessed with Mysterion he never noticed. He wasn't sure he saw either.

"Denver's Greatest Hero," Cartman said, his sing-song tone dripping with mockery. "Poor, selfish, depraved white trash, using the people's suffering as an excuse to get his sweet, precious  _Kahl_ on his—"

Kenny howled again, but not in pain. This was a truly animal sound that seemed to come more from the earth below than his own body. His fist swung up from the ground and cracked solidly, audibly, in the center of Cartman's mask. Cartman reeled back, both hands flying to his nose, with an unholy shriek, and Kenny was back up again, tackling Cartman to the ground and wailing on him. His leg was perfectly fine.

At that moment, the lights went on. Kyle yelped in surprise, throwing his hands up to shield his eyes. Beside him, he saw Stan do the same. Squinting through the sudden blinding light, Kyle tried to make out what was happening on the stage. Mysterion had also thrown his arms up over his eyes, but the shadow he cast over the Coon must have lessened the effect of the lights turning on. Cartman flung his arms up, claws scratching at Kenny's face and hood. His talons glinted in the new light as they seared through Kenny's sleeve and sliced five jagged gashes into his shoulder. Kenny shouted in pain and sprang back, arm hanging limply to one side, as Cartman barreled to his feet. Kenny glanced around, then ran for the back of the stage. With a leap, he threw himself up onto the curtain, grabbing it with one hand and squeezing the same fold of heavy fabric between his thighs. Kenny inched his way up the curtain, not even bothering with his injured arm, and pulled himself out of Cartman's reach. 

A dozen or so cops burst in from the backstage door and main entrance of the gym, Yates in the lead. Cartman shrieked with fury, digging his talons into the curtain and pulling at it. Kenny's grip faltered as the fabric swung beneath him, but quickly regained his hold.

"Get down here, you cowardly piece of shit!" Cartman yelled. The curtain ripped beneath his claws as he tore at it, trying to shake Kenny from his hold.

Kyle wasn't sure when he'd gotten to his feet, but his hands were on the lip of the stage, and he was ready to pull himself up onto it. Cartman might be aware of the cops, but he'd made no indication of seeing Stan and Kyle. Maybe he could tackle the fat bastard from behind.

Another swing of the fabric, and Kenny's grip faltered again. He was gritting his teeth when he looked down at his arm. When his eyes flickered up and locked onto Kyle's. The color drained from the part of Kenny's face Kyle could see beneath his mask, and in place of the calm and composed expressions Kyle had come to expect, the comfort that could invariably be found in Kenny's eyes and smile, absolute terror overtook his features. Not for his current situation, Kyle instinctively knew, but because Kyle was there. Because Kyle was in danger. And, perhaps, because Kyle had heard.

Claws fully sunk into the thick fabric of the curtain, Cartman yelled again and pulled straight down, forcing the folds of the fabric into flatness and shaking them all the way up to the rings from which they hung. Distracted and not fully recovered from the last slip in his grip, Kenny lost the curtain entirely.

Fell.

Landed on the stage.

On his neck.

Went completely slack.

Fell off into the bleachers.

Leaving a stain of blood behind.


	42. Chapter 42

Oceans and continents away, Stan was yelling for an ambulance and climbing onto the stage, going into varsity mode to tackle Cartman. In another galaxy, Cartman was screaming that he didn't push Kenny, that he fell and it was an accident and it was Kenny's own fault. In a completely separate plane of existence, the police were moving in and securing the area.

In the present moment, frozen in time, balancing on a pinhead, Kyle's heart had climbed into his throat and cut off his air.

Kenny.

 _Kenny_.

Kyle staggered around the runway, pulling his way down the stage hand over hand. He rounded the final corner somewhere between a century and the blink of an eye later. There, slumped over the bleachers, was Mysterion. Kenny. Even with his cape wrapped up and over his still body, Kyle could see the outline of his head bent at an angle it shouldn't have been based on his body's position. He choked around his heart in his mouth and stumbled to Kenny's side.

"Kenny," he whispered. It was the only word in his mind, the only sound his mouth could manage. "Kenny...Kenny..." Over and over, a language all its own, a thousand nuanced pleas for the sight before him not to be true.

He ended up on his knees, fingers trembling on Kenny's cloaked shoulders, torn between resting his head in his lap and not wanting to move him. How could this be? It wasn't Kenny under there. It wasn't Kenny lying bent and broken in front of him. Kenny couldn't die. Kenny wasn't allowed to die. Not now, when Kyle was finally seeing what was right in front of him. Heroes weren't supposed to die when someone needed to be saved. They weren't supposed to fly off where people who loved them couldn't follow, unless they promised to come back.

"Kenny, please don't leave," Kyle said, and even the tiny, shallow whisper that used to be his voice hurt everywhere. His fingertips ghosted over Kenny's face, shrouded beneath his cape. The casual slope of his nose, the soft curve of his cheekbones, the barely-parted lips that kissed safety and whispered home. It was Kenny. It was Kenny, and he was dead, and Kyle was dying with him.

 _Don't leave._ He'd begged Kenny to stay before. In a blank, sterile hospital room a decade-and-a-half before, Kenny's eyes fluttering shut, lips mouthing Kyle's name, exhaling without sound. Why was this happening again? Where were the doctors to heal him with science? Where was God to turn him away from death's door?

Kyle didn't remember closing his eyes, but when he opened them, Stan was kneeling on Mysterion's other side, reaching over the cape for Kyle. His hands were clumsy, brushing too hard at Kyle's cheeks. Wiping away a flood of tears Kyle didn't remember crying. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for Stan to do his best to comfort Kyle, to share in that pain. Kyle needed Kenny. Needed him to pull back the cape and reveal that he was fine. To say,  _Surprise! I'm alive!_ so Kyle could touch him and feel him breathing. Kiss him hard, punch his face in harder, and kiss him again hardest.

Words had failed long ago, but huddled under Stan's chin and over Kenny's body, Kyle grasped for his voice.

_Mysterion can't die._

"Kenny, you c-can't d-die," he managed. "P-Please—don't— _leave_ — _me_."

Beneath the cape, with a sickening  _crack_ , Kenny's head snapped back into place.

Kyle and Stan both screamed, falling backwards in either direction.

" _Jesus Christ!_ " Stan shrieked.

Kyle watched, his mouth dropping open, as the blood from the stage trickled drop by drop over the lip and across the floor, beneath the cape. As if pulled back to Kenny's body by a magnet. The cape fluttered over his lips, the quiet, earth-shattering sound of breath.

" _Kenny_ ," Kyle scrambled forward and slipped a hand under Kenny's head. An exhale, the purple fabric fluttering again. Kyle gently gently pulled back the cape.

Still masked, blond bangs jutting out from under his hood, Kenny's blue eyes stared up at him.

"Dude!" Stan was still an octave too high, but the sob that followed was one of relief as he clambered to Kenny's other side.

"What...?" Kyle managed. "How...?"

Kenny exhaled deeply, never breaking eye contact. "Ky...maybe just...let me keep some of the mystery alive here," Kenny said, wincing. He swallowed and shifted stiffly, and Kyle inched closer, easing Kenny's head and shoulders into his lap.

Kenny went boneless in his arms so quickly Kyle gasped, afraid it wasn't a miracle after all. The content chuckle was his only indication that Kenny hadn't died in his arms again. Kyle rubbed his shoulder with one hand, fingers tracing the torn fabric and smooth skin underneath. With the other hand, he ran his fingertips down Kenny's jaw, the physical sensation of his breathing Kyle's tether to reality. Kenny groaned.

"I could get used to this," he said, his trademark cocky grin unfurling across his face. Kyle resisted the reflex of smacking him. Now wasn't the time. Not with Kenny's lips easing into something fonder, looking up at Kyle like that. Something akin to alarm flashed across his face then. "Kyle," he said, bolting up into a sitting position and nearly smacking his forehead into Kyle's chin. Kenny spun around to face Kyle and Stan. "What...what Cartman said. How. Much of that did you hear?"

"All of it," Stan said before Kyle could answer. Kyle elbowed him without looking.

"Well, it's not true," Kenny said urgently. He put both palms flat on the floor and leaned forward. "I...I wasn't using Mysterion to—to..." A flush bloomed across the unmasked half of Kenny's face. "I mean, yeah, it was cool when you thought I was cool, and, uh, the balcony and all..." His blush darkened. Kyle suspected his face was changing colors to match.

"What balcony?" Stan asked. Kyle punched his arm without looking.

"Yeah, the...the balcony." It was nearly a whisper, but Kyle leaned forward when he said it. Wanted to be as close to Kenny as possible, all of the time. Wanted to be wrapped up in Kenny _all of the time_ , especially with Kenny looking at him like he was now. Like nothing else mattered. Nothing else mattered. Kyle raised his hands, ready to tear that mask off and bury his hands in Kenny's hair and worry about dying or not dying or traumatizing Stan by making out in front of him later.

It was then that the five silver talons wrapped around Kyle's neck from behind.


	43. Chapter 43

After the backup squad of police went into the gym, the bullpen exchanged looks and moved on instinct. Token, Clyde, Craig, and Tweek huddled at the door, opened a crack, and watched as best they could through the sea of bodies and chairs. Another unspoken agreement was to keep Kenny's sister and Ruby behind them.

"I don't know why you're shielding me," Kenny's sister said blankly. "Who do you think made his costume?"

Everyone turned and gaped at her at that. Glancing up out of the corner of his eye, Tweek could see that Craig's impassive face wasn't just his default expression.

"You figured it out a long time ago, didn't you?" Tweek asked Craig softly. He ran his index finger around the lip of his Harbucks cup, the coffee inside still hot, warming his hand through the cup. Craig's eyes were dark as ever when they turned down to Tweek, but that darkness only made them deeper. Let them communicate without words. "I knew it."

"When did you figure it out?" Token asked.

"I had my suspicions when we first met at that sandwich shop," Craig said, shrugging. "How he got there so fast, why he'd have that bulky duffel bag with him, why he was out of breath and sloppy-looking. I didn't have any proof...just a feeling."

Tweek didn't hold it against Craig that he hadn't let him in on his suspicions. He kept thinking about Craig sitting across from the bathroom in the dark that night, suggesting they didn't say anything without evidence. Even then, he'd sort of blown it, telling Kyle that Mysterion couldn't die. But. Kyle needed to hear that.

Speaking of Kyle, Tweek peeked back into the gym. Stan was on the stage; he ran at the Coon and tackled him to the ground. Tweek couldn't see Kyle anywhere.

"Where's my brother?" Kenny's sister asked from Tweek's shoulder. He scanned the gym but didn't catch so much as a glimpse of a cape.

"He and Kyle are gone," Tweek said, biting his lip. "I don't see them anywhere."

"Maybe Mysterion grabbed Kyle and ran," Clyde said.

"It's not an impossible theory, but if Kenny was willing to reveal himself to us after all this time, I think he's planning to take that villain to task," Token said. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully and stuffed his iPad into its case and then into his shoulder bag. "But Kyle and his friends figured out this guy's identity. The police said they have enough to put him away. They must be moving cautiously since it's a threat on a college campus." Token froze at his own words. "We're on a college campus! This guy is indirectly threatening thousands of students! Is he out of his mind?"

"Somehow, I doubt that thought crossed his mind at all," Craig said.

"Yeah, he's just out to get Mysterion," Clyde said.

"And Kyle." When everyone looked at Craig for clarification, Tweek expected him to stay silent as usual, but he didn't. "We shouldn't have let Kyle go in there. He's leverage."

"What do you mean, 'leverage'?" Clyde asked slowly, though the way his eyebrows knit together suggested that the question came from not wanting the answer he'd figured out to be true.

"If that Cartman guy gets his hands on Kyle, we're screwed. He'll have a human shield against the cops and Mysterion's Achilles' heel at his mercy. If he's got some sort of firepower or another one of his homemade bombs"—Craig's voice formed a chrysalis over his words at the threat to Jimmy—"he could have remote control over Kyle's fate, too."

Tweek turned back to the door. Inside the gym, a roly poly cop was struggling to cuff Cartman. Stan had disappeared, too.

"We gotta go around the back," Tweek said. "Maybe, ngh, Kyle and the others gotawaybackstage."

Without waiting for anyone else's input, Tweek bolted from the hallway to the door through which Yates had led Kyle and Stan. Outside in the sun, an immediate sheen of sweat hit his forehead. Tweek followed the sounds of walkie talkies and the sight of police vehicles to the back of the building, where another door was conspicuously unguarded. 

He felt more than saw Craig follow him, but when Tweek looked down at his shadow and saw it eclipsed by a taller, stronger shape, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was easier to be brave with Craig behind him. Everything was better when Craig was within reach.

The huffing breaths he heard told Tweek that Clyde and Token had followed as well. Swallowing, Tweek grabbed the door handle and jerked it open. The stairwell was pitch black. Tweek put his palm to the wall and felt his way down the corridor, drawn to the hint of light coming through the door cracked open presumably into the gym.

"Kyle?" he whispered. Even that quiet volume echoed off the walls. Kyle wasn't back here. 

Tweek opened the door leading into the gym, momentarily blinded going back into the light from the absolute darkness. The minute he did, a wail ran up from the stage. He turned to look at the rest of the bullpen so quickly Tweek thought he felt a strain in his neck, and three pairs of alarmed eyes met his. They darted into the gym, cloaked by the curtain partitioning off the makeshift backstage.

"Cartman, _don't_!"

It was Kenny's voice, Tweek was sure, cracking with an uncertainty Tweek didn't realize Kenny had the capacity for. He crept to the edge of the backstage and knelt down, setting his coffee cup on the floor—why had he brought it? _Ugh_.—peeking around the curtain. The bullpen followed his lead, staying quiet.

A few feet away from them on the floor, the roly poly officer was being dragged to his feet by two comrades who were tending to a heinous set of gashes down the side of his face. Up on stage, Cartman was free of anyone's hold, face red with exertion, one thick arm wrapped around Kyle's shoulders, the other hand pressing the points of his five claws against Kyle's throat. Tweek could see the indent of the claws against Kyle's jugular and felt momentarily faint.

Clambering up over the lip of the stage from the opposite side was Mysterion, the image of everything not calm or cool. His eyes were wide, hands out in front of himself as if willing Cartman to ease up. Stan stood on the floor behind him, hands flush against the stage floor, expression contorted as he kept his eyes on Kyle. He was afraid to move, Tweek saw, and so was Kenny.

"Cartman," Kenny said again, audibly trying to regain composure. His hand shook as he stretched his arm out towards Kyle. "Let him go."

"Or what, Kenny? You'll die of a broken heart? You'll just come right back anyway." Now that Tweek was listening to Cartman speak at length, he noticed an odd sort of dialect. The raspy movie superhero voice he put on didn't make him easier to understand. "Are you kidding me? You've had a superpower all along? See, Kenny, this is why you're not Denver's Greatest Hero. Because instead of using your superpower to become a superhero, you're pretending like you qualify for vigilantism. Everybody knows vigilantes don't have powers. Haven't you ever seen a Batman movie? He just has money and a cool car. Two other things you lack."

Tweek looked over his shoulder to exchange an exasperated look with Token. Clyde worried his bottom lip between his teeth, still focused on Kyle. Craig fixated on Cartman and Kyle as well, glaring, his eyes brighter than ever.

"Can't get a clean shot," Craig muttered to himself.

"What?" Tweek asked. Craig's eyes cut to him, a rare flash of surprise.

"I was right," he said, slightly guarded. "He's using Kyle as a human shield."

"Now what?" Token whispered.

"Well, we can assume that he doesn't have a long-range weapon or any sort of fire, explosive, what-have-you," Craig said, "because he opted to target Kyle up close like this. He's not able to threaten him from afar. That's good, I think...it means he doesn't have a grand-scale plan here."

"Cartman," Kenny said again. He stepped closer, and Kyle hissed reflexively. Tweek's eyes shot to him, and he could see the indent of claw against skin deepening. From the talon on Cartman's thumb, a tiny red bead trickled down Kyle's neck to his collar. Kenny stumbled back so many steps Stan had to reach out and hit the backs of his calves with his arm to keep him from toppling off the stage.

"Mm, no, you don't want to do that, Kenny," Cartman purred, letting up some of the pressure on Kyle's neck. "And Kyle, you're not going to want to squirm around so much, either."

Kyle went still in his grip, chest heaving with deep breaths. Tweek could tell from his wild eyes and the thin line of his mouth that he was breathing anger, not fear.

"You think you're going to get away with your actions?" Kyle asked through gritted teeth. Tweek's heart pounded. Maybe Kyle didn't know fear. "The cops have you surrounded, and you're now actively threatening to slit my throat."

"I'm not going to slit your throat, Kyle," Cartman said with sinister patience. Tweek had never heard someone pronounce 'Kyle' with only one syllable before. "Not unless there's trouble."

"What do you want, Cartman?" Kenny asked, pulling his voice from the bottom of the ocean.

"For starters, Kenny, you keep calling me Cartman, but I am the Coon. You have no way of identifying the person behind the mask, and I'd appreciate it if you'd stop misidentifying me."

"We know it's you, Cartman!" Stan yelled from the floor, hands curling into fists.

"And what makes you say that the Coon's alter ego goes by the name Cartman?" Cartman asked, trying too hard to sound like he wasn't invested in the answer. "Why would you think he and I are one and the same?"

"Because you're fat," Kenny snapped. Tweek's hand instinctively brushed the front of his shirt, tracing the incorrect buttoning, aware of the pudge underneath that came with café pastries. For a split-second he thought Kenny's statement a cruel generalization, but then Cartman shrieked with fury, and Tweek recognized that the jab was a heat-seeking missile honed on an obvious pressure point.

"I'm not  _fat_ , I'm  _big-boned_!" Cartman howled, hand squeezing against Kyle's neck. Kyle pressed his lips together hard to swallow a cry of pain, but a residual noise still leaked out. Mysterion crumpled like a house of cards.

"Don't!" Kenny said, his voice a plea and apology all at once. He hunched back from Cartman meekly. "D...Don't."

"We've got evidence, Cartman," Stan said, hard as a statue. "You left a paper trail." Cartman's eyes evaluated him warily, then, after a pause, widened. His lips formed an unspoken word that, to Tweek, looked something like 'butter.' That couldn't be right.

"Take off your mask," Cartman yelled from the stage, Kyle lolling like a rag doll in his arms. "Vigilantism may be noble work to the people of Denver, but the law still looks down on it. You reveal yourself, and you'll be arrested." Beneath his rodent's mask, his eyes gleamed. "Mysterion ends tonight, Kenny."

Kenny's hands went to his hood automatically, pausing only when Kyle said, "Don't do it, Mysterion!" To the very end, when everybody knew it was Kenny, he was still fighting for that secret identity. Kyle truly knew no fear.

"You stay out of this, Kyle," Cartman said, sinking his claws into Kyle's shoulder. Tweek flinched at the sound of Kyle's jacket sleeve tearing under the talons. So easy. Like a knife through butter. And on the other hand, there were five of them pressed to Kyle's throat.

"Stop! Stop...I..." Mysterion flipped back his hood and grabbed the black mask tied around his eyes and nose, yanking it down so that it fell like a bandana around his neck. Kenny's shock of blond hair and wide blue eyes emerged from the darkness, looking out of place wrapped in the purple cloak. "It's me, I'm Mysterion. Kenny McCormick."

"Kenny..." Kyle said, guilt splitting his face.

"Correction," Cartman said, "you  _were_ Mysterion. _Now_ you're under arrest." He looked out at the ten-or-so cops staring up from the floor. Some had guns trained on him; others froze in place with his attention on them, no longer able to creep up towards the stage. With a hostage in his hands, what could they do? "Well? Somebody cuff him!"

Yates jerked his chin in the roly poly officer's direction, and in spite of his visible wound—or perhaps chosen because of it—the cop made his way to the stage. Another officer gave him a boost over the lip, and he struggled from his knees to his feet once he was up.

Cartman was listing off more demands. "You're going to set fire to that paper trail. And start taking the Coon seriously as an ally to the people of Denver. And you," he snapped at Kyle, who pointedly looked away from him, "and your paper are going to start reporting on the real hero of Denver."

"Are you kidding me right now, Cartman?" Stan yelled. " _That's_ what this is all about? You're jealous of Kenny and mad that Kyle's not the president of your fan club?"

"I'm not  _jealous_ of the  _poor kid,_ Stan! And I think it's reasonable of Kyle to, for once in his life, admit that he was wrong. It builds character."

The roly poly cop was struggling with his cuffs and had to blink blood out of his eyes as he tried to get them unhinged. Kenny miserably but obediently put up his wrists.

"You have to let Kyle go," he said, voice cracking.

"Once we're all on the same page," Cartman said loftily.

The same page. Page. Tweek's breath nearly stopped. He grabbed his coffee, shot to his feet, and bolted out from behind the curtain. Craig's hiss of surprise sounded behind him.

"Wait!" Tweek cried, throwing up his free hand. The cops around him whipped around, and Cartman pulled further away, dragging Kyle with him.

"Who the hell are you?" Cartman growled. A tremor ran through Tweek's hand, and he willed it to stop. Please, he begged his body, not now. Not today.

"I'm...Tweek Tweak. I'm on staff at the  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ ," he said, keeping his voice as level as possible. He breathed deeply, even in the face of Cartman's annoyed recognition.

"Friend of yours, Kyle?" he asked, voice rising. "This some kind of setup?"

"No, no, no," Tweek assured him, "I sneaked in on my own. No other newspaper is here yet. Thiscouldbe our exclusive!" Deep breaths, don't let the words run together, keep it together...interest had sparked in Cartman's expression. Tweek put his hand up over his head and arced in across the air as if illustrating one of his headlines. "'A New Era of Vigilantism in Denver.' Full coverage on leaving Mysterion behind and embracing a new hero." At the flicker of distrust on Cartman's face, Tweek hastily added, "The true hero. That we've, ngh....been...neglecting. It's front page news, for sure."

As soon as the smugness settled into the rolls of fat around Cartman's neck, Tweek allowed himself to relax. "Well, well, well. You see that, Kyle? Your paper's not so stupid after all. It's just you, bringing them down."

Without looking towards the backstage, Tweek held out his free arm, knowing Craig would appear where he gestured. "This is our photographer, Craig Tucker. We've got to get shots of Mysterion getting cuffed, and one of you for the head of the feature." Sure enough, Craig was by his side, camera at the ready. Cartman puffed up, and Tweek tore his eyes away from Kyle's horrified expression to glance at Craig. His head was bowed down over his camera as he ostensibly adjusted his flash. Through his lashes, Craig's dark blue eyes flickered to Tweek's face. Tweek adjusted his grip on his coffee cup, resting his thumb and index finger just under the rim of his lid.

"Hi," Craig said. His lack of inflection in anyone else's ear might sound bored or robotic, but Tweek had never felt more sure that everything was going to be okay than he did in that moment. "Do you think you could pose on this side of the stage? I want to get a shot looking up at you from below, and I can't quite get the angle from where you're standing now."

Cartman acquiesced so quickly Tweek thought he was dreaming. In a blink, Cartman was on their side of the stage, preening down at them. Craig fiddled with his camera again and lifted it to his face. With that shield, he glanced over to Tweek. Tweek tried to nod as imperceptibly as possible, figuring it passed as one of his usual tremors. He held the Harbucks cup tightly, feeling the coffee's heat radiating through to his palm, and pushed his thumb as carefully as possible against the lid. It popped up silently, like a flinch.

"That's great," Craig said, sounding like he was watching paint dry. "Think you can move Kyle out of the shot?"

"For the front page? I understand your concern," Cartman said benevolently. Though one hand stayed wrapped around the back of Kyle's neck, the other a vice on his shoulder, Cartman shoved him aside and grinned garishly down into Craig's lens.

"Perfect," Craig said.

In one fluid motion, maybe the only fluid motion in Tweek's life, he knocked the lid off his Harbucks cup and threw his arm up in the air, sending scalding hot coffee right into Cartman's face.


	44. Chapter 44

Cartman roared in pain, reeling back, his hands instinctively going to his face. As soon as the claws retracted, Kyle spun around, putting that momentum behind his fist and socking Cartman across the jaw. Maybe Kyle didn't come out of every fight with Cartman victorious, but he was practically undefeated when their fights got physical. The element of surprise was gone, that lone advantage lost. Cartman staggered to one knee, and Kyle figured he could be forgiven this one time for kicking his enemy when he was down. His foot cracked into Cartman's side, fueled with anger at everything he had done. Ruining Karen's show, threatening Kenny, unmasking Mysterion, taking him hostage. Hurting Jimmy.  _Hurting Jimmy_ with a cowardly attack meant for Kyle.

He was rearing back his leg for a follow-up kick when he heard someone yelling. And the sound was getting closer. 

Kyle turned in time to see Clyde, full-blown panic plastered to his face, leaping up onto the stage beside him. Clyde grabbed Kyle around the middle and hurled him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, a string of distressed noises accompanying the action, and jumped down from the stage, putting as much distance as possible between them and Cartman. Over Clyde's shoulder, Kyle strained his neck to see Token jumping up onto the stage, too, and expertly flipping Cartman and pinning him down.

"Backup, please," Token said, polite as a request to pass the ketchup.

When Kyle looked to Officer Barbrady, he'd apparently successfully cuffed Kenny and now couldn't get the handcuffs off of him and onto the real bad guy. Kenny's attention was already on him when Kyle made eye contact, and his grin was that of a madman.  _It was cool when you thought I was cool._ Kyle's heart slammed against his rib cage. When  _hadn't_ Kenny been cool?

"Cartman, was it?" Token asked.

"The Coon," Cartman snarled back. Clyde turned around to face the stage, leaving Kyle facing the wall.

"I see," Token said coolly. "Well, here is a valuable piece of advice for Denver's least favorite villain. The  _Rocky Mountain Reporter_ isn't just a newspaper staff. We're family."

"You mess with one of us," Clyde added shrilly, "you mess with  _all of us_!" 

The pop culture reference would have been much better if he hadn't sounded like he was on the verge of tears, but Kyle's heart warmed with the sentiment all the same. He put his hands on Clyde's back and pushed himself up, wishing his feet were flat on the floor. "Thanks for coming to help," he whispered. Clyde sniffled loudly.

"You bet," he said. "You...better...believe it."

"Clyde," Kyle whispered. "You can put me down now."

"Not until he's cuffed. If he gets away again, we're gettin' you outta here." Clyde's arm tightened around Kyle's middle. Kyle sighed.

"Okay, fine. But I can't see. Can you turn me, or give a play-by-play?"

"The cop who cuffed Kenny is trying his best," Clyde said with genuine sympathy. Kyle smiled. "Yates is helping Token out. Oh, is he...? Ah!"

Kyle was about to ask what was happening when he felt his body lurching backwards. Clyde lowered him onto his feet again and let go. When he straightened, his brown eyes were wide with relief, his grin all teeth. 

"Got him."

Turning around, Kyle could see Yates up on the stage pulling Cartman, hands cuffed behind his back, to his feet. Token stood by glowering at Cartman, and Stan had made his way to the officer's other side for additional backup. With relish, Yates whipped off Cartman's mask, sending droplets of coffee splattering across the stage. Bleary-eyed and red-faced, Cartman blinked rapidly.

"Eric Cartman," Yates said, slipping his thumbs through his suspenders. Token and Stan tensed on either side of him, ready to pounce as he let down his guard. "You're under arrest." Yates rattled off a laundry list of crimes, and Kyle stood straighter with every one. Flanked by three policemen, Yates steered Cartman out towards the backstage exit. Token and Stan exchanged looks and darted after them, Token taking the lead and Stan pulling up the rear. Kyle didn't blame them; after a childhood in South Park, he'd seen his share of punishments Cartman weaseled his way out of.

As soon as they were out of sight, Clyde rounded on Kyle and started fussing over his scratches. Like a phantom, Craig appeared at his elbow and tugged Clyde back by the scruff of his jacket. "Craig, dude, what? Kyle's hurt and traumatized and—"

"Doesn't need you up in his business turning a situation that didn't actually traumatize him into one that does," Craig finished. Tweek was beside him, and Kyle could see that their fingers had intertwined again. He caught Tweek's eye and gave him a smile; Tweek returned it shyly and tilted his head in the direction of the stage. Following his gesture, Kyle could see that Barbrady had finally gotten Kenny uncuffed. Kenny clapped a hand on his shoulder and gave him a wide smile, saying something Kyle couldn't hear but was sure was encouraging. 

Barbrady was smiling when Kyle made his way over. "You know me, Mysterion," he said. "I like to help."

"I know you've always got my back, Officer Barbrady," Kenny said warmly. Barbrady straightened and puffed up his chest.

Kenny looked down at Kyle, and the fondness on his face faltered. Kyle swallowed. "Hi," he whispered. Kenny gave Barbrady one last pat on the shoulder and dropped down to the floor from the stage. To see Kenny's light eyes and sunshine hair cloaked in Mysterion's costume was like seeing the world through a filter. Like that place between sleep and wakefulness, when you're having a good dream until you realize you're dreaming. Then all of a sudden you can't stop waking up.

"Hi," Kenny said. He took a shallow breath. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you."

Kyle crossed his arms to keep them from reaching out for Kenny. Then he worried that crossed arms looked too angry. "Why didn't you?"

"I didn't realize it was going to go this far. At first, I...I was going to tell you, but then..." Kenny fidgeted with his cowl. Fidgeted with his gloves. Swallowed.

"I didn't make it easy on you, did I?" Kyle managed. Kenny raised his eyebrows. "Going on and on about Mysterion every chance I had. Stan was right. I built up this fictional character instead of paying attention to the real person behind the mask." Kyle fought to keep eye contact. There was no chickening out now. "Kenny...what Cartman said..."

Color flooded Kenny's cheeks. "I wasn't using Mysterion to..." He grunted with frustration and looked down. "Like... _seduce_ you, or whatever."

Oh, good, now they were both blushing furiously, looking anywhere but at each other.

"I-I know you weren't Kenny." Kyle's voice came out higher than he meant. He cleared his throat and gave himself a second before speaking again, normally this time. "I meant...what he said about me. Did I ever...make you feel invisible?"

He ventured a look up at Kenny, whose lips parted in surprise. "Wh...no, Kyle. You didn't."

Kyle's arms untwined themselves against his will and twitched out towards Kenny. Before he could stuff his hands back into his elbows, Kenny had swooped forward and pulled Kyle into a hug. Running his hands up Kenny's arms, Kyle's fingers found purchase in the folds of his cape draped over his shoulders. It wasn't so bad being shorter than Kenny. The way they were now, Kyle's head fit in the crook of Kenny's neck without having to hunch or push himself up on his toes.

"You're not invisible," Kyle murmured into his cloak. Kenny exhaled a laugh through his nose.

"Kyle." His arms wrapped more confidently around Kyle's waist, holding him tightly, like he'd never let him go.

"You're not white trash, either." Kyle buried his nose harder into the cloak, until it bumped against Kenny's shoulder, warm through the layers of fabric. "Community college isn't lesser than any other schooling. You couldn't be selfish if your life depended on it. Your nine lives, or however many you have." There was a split-second hesitation before Kyle felt Kenny's smile against his temple. Rolling the fabric of Mysterion's cape between his fingers, Kyle finished his speech with a whisper he wasn't sure if he wanted Kenny to hear or for his costume to absorb. "The balcony..."

Kenny licked his lips. "The balcony," he said.

This was the second time today that they'd echoed those two words to one another. Four syllables that surged forward such a strong memory. Color and sound and breath warming lips for the fleeting moments their mouths didn't fit like two puzzle pieces. The last two pieces to put together to see some beautiful picture. Hours of work, patience, attention to detail. All for this.

"You said my name," Kenny said lightly.

"You kissed me back," Kyle countered. He drew back to purse his lips in challenge. 

Kenny's crooked smile stretched slowly across his face. "You kissed me first."

"You kissed me  _back_." Kyle wanted to talk about that. Wanted confirmation from Kenny himself that it meant something. That it happened just like Kyle remembered. That it was going to happen again in the immediate future. Kenny's fingers splayed on the small of Kyle's back. Hyper aware of every aspect of this moment, Kyle could feel his hands trembling. Kenny leaned his face a little closer, his bangs brushing Kyle's. Breath falling from his lips in staggered puffs, roaring in Kyle's ears. Kyle felt himself going cross-eyed holding Kenny's impossibly blue gaze.

"I kissed you back," he agreed, voice so soft, so low. Kyle snaked his arms around Kenny's neck, pulled him closer, let his eyes flutter shut. Let himself fall back in his memory to the balcony, reliving the moment, recreating it. Changing only two details. One, that the man in his arms wasn't a masked mystery. A replacement, or so he thought, for who he really wanted. Two, that the name that fell from his lips was no accident.

" _Kenny._ "

"Mysterion."

The voice wasn't Kenny's. Kyle felt Kenny freeze in his arms, and his eyes opened reluctantly when he realized that the momentum of the kiss wasn't moving forward.

Yates stood maybe two feet from them, not even embarrassed, evaluating Kenny with a steady eye. Over Yates' shoulder, Kyle spotted Clyde, Craig, and Tweek in the distance and was embarrassed to see that they were all blatantly watching him with Kenny. Clyde and Tweek both had their palms up, brows furrowed, mouths open in the direction of Yates' back. It was Craig, statuesque and blinking in slow motion, who spoke for all of them: "Seriously? You couldn't wait, like, a second?"

"We'll have to get your deposition, Broflovski, along with the rest of your team," Yates said. Completely oblivious.  _You bastard_ , Kyle thought. "And Mysterion...it's true that vigilantism is a crime subject to arrest."

Kyle's arms held Kenny more tightly. He was being arrested? After all that?

Yates' walkie talkie crackled. "Yates, do you copy?" a young man's voice asked, filtered through the static. Yates sighed and pulled the walkie talkie to his mouth.

"Yates," he said.

"Update on the situation? We received report that you've taken a vigilante into custody."

"Confirmed. We've got three of our guys in the wagon with him, and the rest of us are staying here to sweep the campus and take eyewitness accounts."

"Sir, ah..." The younger officer—at least, Kyle assumed he was younger—hesitated. "Sir, the vigilante we've arrested...it wasn't...?"

"The Coon," Yates said. "All of the evidence to put him away is at the office. You should have a copy."

"Yes, sir."

"Mysterion was here as well," Yates continued. Kenny stiffened. Yates held his gaze for a few seconds, tapping his index finger against the edge of his walkie talkie. "He helped us take the Coon into custody and took off. I suppose unmasking one vigilante is enough for one day...but the next time Mysterion shows up, he won't get away so easily."

Yates stared down Kenny for another few seconds, a whisper of a smile flashing across his face, while the officer on the other end of his walkie talkie responded. The words didn't register in Kyle's mind. Kenny wasn't being arrested. His identity wasn't being revealed. Mysterion was free to go.

Hitching his walkie talkie back into his belt loop, Yates nodded. "You'd better go, Mysterion. Reporters and the sweep team will be here soon. You'll have to be gone before that."

"Right. Okay. Thanks, Sarge." Kenny untangled himself from Kyle dutifully, sighing with his whole body. He pulled his mask over his eyes and flipped his hood up again, night falling over sunshine. Now that he knew the truth, Kyle couldn't unsee Kenny's face, even under Mysterion's mantle. "I'll..." Kenny grunted and picked up Mysterion's gruff voice again. "See you at home."

Kyle fought down a shiver. "Okay. Be careful."

Kenny nodded. In a blink, he was across the gym, through the backstage door, and gone.

"Okay, seriously, that cop has no sense of  _mood_ ," Clyde griped. Kyle turned to see his three friends now stood at his elbow. "Has he never seen a superhero movie? That was it! The big kiss!"

"Clyde, _please_ shutup, ngh!"

"We can't take you anywhere," Craig added.

"No, you know who we can't take anywhere?" Clyde said, throwing up his hands. "That cop! Because if we take him anywhere, Kyle will never get to smooch his superhero boyfriend!"

The three continued to bicker, Clyde outraged, Craig monotonous, Tweek experiencing enough secondhand embarrassment that Kyle felt better about tuning out the conversation. He kept his eyes on the door across the gym, his arms empty without a tall someone to hold, the small of his back cold without hands pressed against it, lips feeling sorely neglected. 

He was inclined to agree with Clyde.


	45. Chapter 45

Waiting to be given the green light to leave was agony. Kyle knew that the cops were just doing their jobs, and he was happy to help put Cartman away. The rest of the bullpen and Stan looked at him with sympathy every time someone claimed it was just a few more minutes.

The only point at which Kyle eased up was when the deposition turned to Tweek. Apparently there hadn't been any sort of plan; he'd just jumped in and started winging it.

"I was so afraid you were going to get hurt, Kyle," he said, wringing his hands. "That, ngh, what happened to Jimmy would happentoyoutoo...and that he'd get away with it."

Skittish though he seemed, Tweek had a lion's heart. "You really saved the day, Tweek," Kyle said. A hint of pride crossed Tweek's face. He grimaced some version of a smile.

"Couldn't have caught that guy without him," Craig said. The warmth in his voice made everyone turn, though Craig's eyes didn't leave Tweek. He smiled—an actual  _smile_ , with teeth and dimples and soft eyes—which Kyle couldn't recall ever having seen Craig do and was immediately embarrassed to have intruded on it. He looked away and spotted Token doing the same, though Clyde made no such movement, positively beaming.

When yet another cop approached them on the bleachers, Kyle put his foot down. "I'm a diabetic," he said. "If I don't eat at certain times, I get very sick. I have to go home."

The rest of the bullpen backed him up, playing up their concern over his well-being and vaguely referencing "that one time" they witnessed his illness. Clyde was the MVP at selling the story, mostly because he didn't realize he was supposed to be playing along and went into a tailspin at the suggestion that Kyle might be sick again. To be fair, Clyde was the one who'd seen him at his worst at the expo; Kyle would have to trust that the others would fill him in after he left.

Kyle pulled out his phone as soon as he and Stan were outside and found that he had two texts. Karen had sent a group text to Kenny, Stan, and Kyle that read:  _Ruby and I are okay. We're evacuating with the rest of the students._ Kenny had texted back,  _good were ok 2_.Kyle looked at the times sent. Karen's text was from over an hour ago. Kenny's was only ten minutes old.

Was it good or bad that Kenny hadn't texted Kyle individually? It was probably better not to read too much into it. 

"Hey!"

Stan and Kyle spun around to see Tweek and Craig following them out of the gym. Tweek raised his free hand to wave. It was kind of sweet how he and Craig held hands now. Kyle's fingers trembled with envy.

"Token and Clyde are taking one for the team and staying to clarify stuff," Craig said.

"Want a ride?" Tweek added. "We thought, geh, you might not want to suffer through public transit on top of everything else."

Kyle accepted immediately, and he and Stan followed the couple to the parking lot. It was a quiet ride home, and blessedly fast; they made every green light. Kyle was glad that Tweek and Craig thought nothing of his haphazard goodbye when he bolted from the car practically before Tweek had come to a complete stop. Stan made up for his manners, closing the car door carefully behind them and leaning towards the passenger side window to offer actual thanks. Kyle was already at the elevator when Stan jogged up behind him.

"Hey, so," Stan said, rocking back and forth as the elevator lurched to life under their feet. Kyle glanced over. "Do you want me to, like, make myself scarce? I mean, I get it if you and Kenny need to talk, just the two of you."

"No, Stan, you don't have to leave. The three of us are a team. I think we should talk this out together."

"I mean, eventually, yeah, but I'm talking about right now. Like, I could go walk around the block or something." Stan shrugged. "I get it if you don't want an audience."

Kyle flushed. "It's not like we're going to make out the second we see each other, you know!"

Stan chuckled as the elevator doors opened to their floor. "I told you it would work out."

"He hasn't even said he likes me yet," Kyle sputtered half-heartedly. After a pause, he added, "Actually, I haven't told Kenny I like him, either."

"Luckily you two are good at...what're they called? You're the English major. Text clues."

" _Con_ text clues."

Stan snapped his fingers in agreement while Kyle fumbled his apartment key. "Yeah. You don't have to say it out loud to know you're into each other."

"Well, it's nice to hear out loud." Kyle hoped Stan knew he wasn't fighting with him out of anger. It was just nerves. Just nerves.  _Kenny._ Maybe he should have taken Stan up on his offer for privacy. Then again, it would be twice as embarrassing to arrive home alone. He could just imagine the hint of smugness on Kenny's face if he came running through the door saying,  _Quick, Stan'll be back in ten minutes! Kiss me!_

No, they were going to talk this out like reasonable adults. The three of them would sit down and be completely open with each other. No secrets. They could make dinner, have a quiet night in, and just talk.

He finally got the door open. In the living room area, Kenny was sprawled out on the couch in sweatpants and a long, navy tee shirt. He sat bolt upright when Kyle and Stan walked in, and Kyle could see that his hair was wet. The fan was on in the bathroom; he must've showered.

Kenny jumped to his feet and took three long strides towards them, hesitating just beyond arm's length from Kyle. "...Hey, guys."

"Hey, dude," Stan said.

Kyle took a deep breath, steadying himself so his voice didn't come out embarrassingly squeaky or breathy. The navy shirt brought out Kenny's blue eyes, which were trained on Kyle. A thousand thoughts screamed through his mind. Kenny already knew he liked him, and Kenny... _I kissed you back._ Kenny liked him, too. Kenny liked him,  _too_. The balcony. The balcony, the balcony, the balcony. 

When Kyle didn't speak up right away, Stan continued. "Sorry we're so late. We had to keep giving our testimonies over and over. Kyle got us out of there, though, you should have seen—"

Kyle elbowed Stan aside and moved forward, closing the gap between himself and Kenny. His body moved on autopilot, his feet not stopping until his knees bumped against Kenny's, his arms reaching out and wrapping around Kenny's neck. His fingers buried themselves in Kenny's damp hair, tangling, getting their grip, and pulled his head down until his mouth crashed into Kyle's.

_Finally._

If Kyle had caught Kenny off guard at all, he didn't show it. Mysterion had hesitated in surprise for a split second, but Kenny melted right back into Kyle as if they'd planned this. The last thing Kyle saw before he let his eyes slide shut was Kenny's eyes twinkling at him. The other senses took over once he'd relinquished his sight. The smell of Kenny's store brand shampoo, the slow sound of his contented sigh, the gentle bite of spearmint toothpaste on his lips. Kyle felt warm arms snaking around his waist to pull him impossibly close. He tried pushing his mouth harder against Kenny's, squirmed against him trying to find his footing. Without so much as a chuckle at Kyle's inexperienced expense, Kenny tilted his head to one side, his mouth shifting against Kyle's, slipping into the groove between his top and bottom lips. Yes, good, this was better. Thank God Kenny knew what he was doing.

Kyle hummed against him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered how his voice trembled and considered embarrassment, but then he felt Kenny's smile curving around his mouth. Everything else ceased to exist. Kenny's lips parted enough for a whisper of air, his bottom lip pushing Kyle's bottom lip down with it, and  _God, Kenny was good at this._

His ensuing gasp was sharp enough that the immediate embarrassment couldn't be brushed back. His face burned, eyes squeezed shut, and his hands pulled on Kenny's nice, clean hair, scruffing it back up in every direction. One of Kenny's arms traced its way up Kyle's side until his hand brushed Kyle's cheek. He leaned into the touch, felt Kenny's fingers slipping under his ushanka, threading through his curls. Holding his head just so while Kenny adjusted his angle, deepening the kiss. Kyle's fingers tightened in his hair. His heart was pounding, and his chest was aching, and he should probably take a break to catch his breath, _literally_ , but why would he do that? Everything was better when Kenny was within reach. Everything was _so much better_ when he was so wrapped up in Kenny he couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.

"Jeez, Stan, what are you talking about?" Stan deadpanned under his breath behind them. It sounded like he was struggling not to laugh. "It's not like we're going to make out the second we see each other, you know!"

Kyle eased out of the kiss just enough to gasp "Shut up, Stan" into Kenny's mouth. Kenny chuckled back, pecking a few more kisses on Kyle's lips. Each one was gentler than the one before until finally Kyle would describe what they were doing less as kissing and more as pressing their smiles together, lashes fluttering against each other's cheeks, temples, as they tried not to go cross-eyed looking at one another.

"I like you," Kyle mumbled.

"I like you, too," Kenny said, smile widening until Kyle felt his teeth against his lips.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kyle caught sight of Stan inching around them towards his room. "Where are you going?"

Stan paused to give him an incredulous look. "Dude, I'm trying to make like a tree and 'leaf.' Give you guys your privacy. I  _am_ a super best friend, you know. I can wingman."

"You are super, thanks for that," Kyle said dryly. Kenny exhaled a laugh that tickled his earlobe. Kyle's brain caught up to his actions at that point, and he wriggled in Kenny's arms. Kenny loosened his hold but didn't drop his arm from Kyle's waist. Kyle resisted the urge to nuzzle his cheek. "S...sorry, Stan."

"Sorry," Kenny said without a shred of remorse.

Salad with grilled chicken was fast and easy, and Kyle was glad when nobody griped about the healthy meal he put in front of them. For a few minutes, the only sounds in the apartment were forks against plates and eating. Dinner was over practically before it began.

"Okay, how do we want to start this?" Stan asked, leaning back into the chair. He rested his palms on his knees and drummed his fingers noiselessly against his jeans.

"Shall I open the floor?" Kenny asked. Kyle shifted a little closer to him on the couch. "Okay. Well. I can't die."

Kyle and Stan exchanged looks. Twenty-four hours ago, it would have been absurd, but the  _crack_ of Kenny's neck under Mysterion's cape wouldn't soon be leaving Kyle's memory. Nobody spoke for a moment.

"I've died a few times," Kenny continued carefully. "All accidents, obviously. It's like falling asleep for a split second, then coming back. Like, you know when you fall asleep in class with your head propped up on your hand, and then your neck kind of lolls forward and you wake up into panic?" Stan nodded. Kyle shook his head. "Well, it's like that."

"Why can't you die?" Kyle asked.

Kenny sighed. "I don't know."

"How long since you realized you were...let's say, immortal?" Stan asked.

"The first time I came back was..." Kenny's voice trailed off, but his eyes cut to Kyle. The hospital. That illness. The flatline. His miraculous recovery all those years ago. Kyle bit his lip. "Then there were a few accidents. Right after you guys left, I was working at the garage, fixing some stuff under the hood, and the jack gave out." Kenny stared down at his own hand like he was surprised to see it there. "Came back good as gold."

"Are you okay?" Kyle asked.

"Just...in general," Stan added, telepathically on Kyle's wave and clarifying his thought.

"Yeah," Kenny said slowly. "I'm...yeah. I'm okay."

"Can you do anything else?" Kyle asked. When Kenny raised his eyebrows, he faltered. "Uh, no, that came out wrong. I—"

Kenny snorted. "Relax, Ky, I know. No, immortality's the only curse I've got."

"Curse?" Kyle echoed. Kenny tilted his head back onto the backrest and closed his eyes.

"I come back every time, but it still hurts to die," he said.

"Why didn't you tell us?" Stan asked, sounding as pained as Kyle felt.

"Would you have believed me?" Kenny asked, lifting his head. "I didn't want to have to prove it to you. Why burden you with it?"

Kyle's hand found Kenny's without looking, lacing their fingers. The corner of Kenny's mouth twitched into a smile for a second.

"Is that why you became Mysterion?" Kyle asked, wanting to change the subject. "Because you felt you could take risks others couldn't?"

Kenny considered this and shrugged. "I guess that's part of it, yeah. You're making me sound nobler than I am again." Kenny licked his lips. "I was so used to taking care of everybody, you know? Getting a summer job to pay the electric bill, or telling Karen again and again that she deserved to go wherever she wanted for school. That going into an arts school was okay." He scratched his chin. "We got to Denver, and she just flew like a bird. Didn't miss a beat. All of a sudden, I wasn't keeping my parents out of debt, or comforting my siblings through foster care, or protecting anyone from anything." Kenny's fingers stilled against his chin. "And I realized that I needed that."

"See? You are noble," Kyle said. "You're a caretaker by nature. You have to look out for others."

"I have to feel needed," Kenny corrected wearily. "I'm...scared shitless of not having a greater purpose. What's more useless than an immortal with no function?"

Kyle curled up against Kenny's side, letting his arm fall around his waist. "You're not useless, Kenny."

"Yeah, dude." Stan abandoned the chair and scooted into what little cushion space was available on Kenny's other side. He threw an arm around Kenny's shoulders. "We'd be lost without you, man. And we're not the only ones."

"Karen's growing up, but that doesn't mean she doesn't still need her big brother," Kyle said. "And your family back in South Park needs you, too."

"And Kyle's right, dude, you're being way too hard on yourself. You're one of the good guys!"

Kenny laughed, but there was no tension in the lines around his mouth. They'd eased his pain. Kyle reached up to grab Kenny's hand, and Stan folded his hand over both of theirs. "Denver's Greatest Hero," Kenny droned, rolling his eyes.

"That's you, dude," Stan whispered, and he managed to deliver that reassurance with such seriousness that the three of them immediately dissolved into laughter.


	46. Chapter 46

_**A New Era of Heroics in Denver** _

_By Kyle Broflovski_

_Hello,_ Rocky Mountain  _readers. Over the past six weeks, Denver has seen moments straight out of a superhero movie, from arson to hostage situations. Some people may think it stems from the vigilantism we've reported on. Mysterion is a menace, they may suppose. He's invited chaos and villainy into the city. Some hero._

_I disagree. Mysterion is no menace, and his good deeds aren't to be blamed for the fame-seeking, small-time criminals who have tried to rise up. Not all chaos is bad. Most importantly, Denver isn't just some city. It's our city. It's Mysterion's city. For all of us, hero or not, Denver is home._

 

The apartment was quiet with Stan at work and Kenny in class. Kyle whipped himself up a quinoa and bok choy salad and set to stir-frying thinly-sliced steak for when his carnivorous roommates returned. Honestly. He just wanted them to live longer. Kyle wondered if Kenny would smile at that.

There had been no follow-up from the police on Cartman's arrest, and Kyle was praying that no news was good news. It had only been a few days. That could mean anything.

Kyle sighed to himself. Normally having the apartment to oneself was precious time not to be squandered. He could blast his playlists and rap along without fear of being teased, read without interruption, take a nap. All very important. Tonight he just felt lonely.

Granted, it might have just been, as Stan was calling it, separation anxiety. Kyle supposed he had spent the weekend rather wrapped up in his new boyfriend.  _Boyfriend_. That was a good word. As an English major, Kyle felt he had the authority to label it a terrific word. The best word, even. As a pre-law major, he thought this movement perfectly legal.

The process was supposed to be "going out," then "steady dating," and then "boyfriend" after a suitable amount of time, but that seemed like a whole lot of dawdling to get to an inevitable result. It was  _Kenny_. They'd been the closest of friends their whole lives, they knew more about each other than people who just went out or dated. There was no need for preamble. He'd told Kenny as much the night of Karen's show. After Stan went to bed, Kyle said something along the lines of "You're my boyfriend now, right?" and Kenny responded with something like "Hell yeah."

 

_What does it mean to be a hero? Is a hero someone who fights crime? Someone with extraordinary powers who fights supervillains? A bird? A plane?_

_In light of my coverage since I joined the_ Rocky Mountain  _staff, I have revisited my definition of "hero." Two months ago, my answer might have been one of the above. I would have said that a hero fights for justice in a loud or demonstrative way, that everyone immediately recognizes a hero when they see one. How ironic that I realize the limitations I created with that definition only now that I have seen Mysterion, a masked vigilante._

 

Kyle made up two dinner plates and wrapped them in plastic wrap. Just as he was closing the refrigerator door, he heard something behind him.  _Tap-tap-tap._

He paused. No, Kenny was in class. It was probably a bird.

_Tap-tap-tap._

Birds didn't knock twice. Kyle made a conscious effort not to fall over himself hurrying to the door out to the balcony. Sure enough, Mysterion's cloaked smirk greeted him as he struggled with the lock and slid the door open.

"Kenny!" Still breathless. Oh, well. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?"

"Kyle, I'm going to let you in on a secret," Mysterion's growl replied. "My class ends an hour before I told you. That's been my Mysterion schedule all semester."

Honestly, he deserved it when Kyle swatted his arm. Kenny just laughed, though.

"I'm retiring," he said in his gravelly voice. The smile toying at Kyle's lips ebbed.

"Retiring?"

Kenny nodded. "Retiring Mysterion. This is my last night. Was my last night. I figured you'd still be up...came home through the balcony instead of my window for a change."

It was good news in a lot of ways. Kenny wouldn't be out so late or in danger; even if he couldn't die, the crack in his voice when he'd said it hurt every time...Kyle was glad that he would be out of the line of fire. It was good.

And yet.

"Why?" Kyle asked.

Kenny leaned forward and batted his eyes. "Hey, I had a good run as a vigilante, don't you think? I figured, why not have my swan song here on our balcony?"

 

_Is it not heroic when you're having a bad day and someone on the bus catches your eye and smiles? Is it not heroic when someone holds the door for you? Perhaps small acts of kindness lack the fanfare we associate with heroism, but when we are on the receiving end of such acts, do we not feel that we have been in some way saved?_

_Mysterion is a hero, but not because he fights crime. It isn't the cape and mask that make him a symbol of hope to the people. It's his desire to do good without seeking praise. He covers his face not to hide, but because he doesn't see himself as anyone special, just another Denver citizen. How humbling it is to live in a regular apartment and work in a regular job, and discover that someone who dedicates his life to protecting and caring for others considers himself ordinary._

 

That wasn't what Kyle was asking 'why' about, but he rolled his eyes anyway. "You're ridiculous," Kyle said. "Aren't you kissed out yet?"

"Are you kidding me? Have you ever kissed you? There's no getting tired of that."

It was a good answer, the right answer, and Kenny knew it, but he also meant it. Kyle folded his arms and huffed for show, but when Kenny threw his cape over his shoulder and loped over with that shit-eating grin, it was impossible to hold back a smile. Kyle rolled his eyes to the starry sky, the galaxies peeking out through the stratus clouds just to illuminate Kenny's wicked smile. A breath later Kenny was holding him, and a laugh later they were kissing again.

Stan called it the honeymoon phase, and, to be fair, Kyle remembered his relationship with Wendy having bursts of over-the-top affection like this, too. Ironic that he'd once rolled his eyes to Kenny over how gooey they got over school dances and major holidays. It was a little for show; he always liked Stan and Wendy's selfies on whatever social media site they were posting them, and not out of best friend obligation but the genuine smile he felt looking at how goofy and in love they were. Now that he was on the other side of it, he could see the appeal in getting gooey.

"Kenny," Kyle whispered teasingly. Kenny chuckled. "Seriously, Kenny...why are you retiring?"

"Mysterion is wish fulfillment," Kenny said. He rocked his weight from one foot to the other, swaying Kyle with him in his arms. "I wanted to be needed...and I am. I'm needed at home." Kyle looked up at him in alarm, and Kenny snickered again. "I meant here with you and Stan and Karen, Ky. I'm not going back to South Park."

Kyle looped his arms around Kenny's middle and laced his fingers. They rocked. "Ever?"

"Never say never," Kenny said sagely. "But, yeah, ever."

"You'll go back to see your family," Kyle reminded him. Kenny made a noncommittal sound and rested his chin on the top of Kyle's head.

 

_I was the one who insisted on building up Mysterion as Denver's Greatest Superhero. It was my reporting that stepped away from the man, the person behind the mask, and created a figure above and beyond any true human being. I accept the blame for luring villains into my city, creating a comic book symbol for them to try to tear down. I am fortunate that Mysterion is a wiser and more forgiving person than I. I am fortunate that true heroes walk these streets. From the kindly policeman who chose his profession because he likes to help others, to the teachers who guide children down a path of curiosity and excitement for the world around them, to the guy standing in front of you in line for your morning coffee, we are surrounded by Denver's Greatest Heroes._

_Six weeks ago, I asked you: Who is Mysterion? Now, Denver, allow me to answer my own question. Let me look past the mask, the hood, the symbol this city needs, and pay attention to what that symbol stands for. Goodness. Kindness. Humility. The easiest qualities in the world to acquire, if only we are open to listening to and seeing the world around us._

 

"It's cold out here," Kyle said. "We should go back inside." It had been one of the warmest Septembers Denver had ever seen and a decent October, but the first week of November squashed fantasies of extended nice weather. Kyle's body backed up his brain by wracking with a shiver to punctuate his point. Kyle heard the  _whoosh_ before he registered that Kenny had wrapped him up in his cape. "Kenny."

"Just another minute," Kenny whispered. He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Kyle's, the cloth of his mask and hood brushing red curls. They stayed together on the balcony, their breath visible in puffs, mingling between them. A cold wind blasted, sending both of them reeling though their feet remained planted on the balcony floor, Kyle's cocoa-brown fuzzy slippers alternating with Kenny's muddy boots. 

This was Mysterion's final night. Kyle wanted to tell Kenny how much Mysterion meant. Not just to him but to Denver. That he'd be treasured and remembered as their hero, even if his vigilante career had been short-lived. Wanted to lay it all out in a speech that came from the heart.

But Kenny didn't want a speech right now, and he didn't need one. He needed to be here, in the cold of Denver's impending winter, wrapped up in his cape and mask, holding these last moments in the palm of his hand. Mysterion meant a lot to Kenny, too. The hero's mantle meant more to Kenny than the Coon did to Cartman, that was for sure. Meant more to Kenny than Kyle could ever possibly understand. Kyle sensed this, feeling Kenny's chest move slowly with deep breaths, his heartbeat peaceful under Kyle's fingertips.

"The last time you and I were on this balcony," Mysterion's voice rumbled in Kyle's ear, "you said Mysterion made me stronger...more powerful than my usual self."

"That wasn't fair of me," Kyle said. "You know I don't think Mysterion is stronger than you, Kenny."

He felt Kenny smiling into his hair. "I know. But you were right. Putting on the mask, becoming a hero...it  _does_ make me feel stronger. Like I can be better than I am. Like the sky really is the limit." Kyle looked up, mouth already open to assure Kenny that was true, when Kenny cut him off again. "Like how I feel when I'm with you."

Kyle could only imagine how stupid-happy his grin was. He couldn't help himself. Kenny shrugged like he was playing it cool, but he kept an eye on Kyle as if gauging his reaction. The wind burst through them again, and Kyle barely felt it, his fingertips sliding under Mysterion's mask and pushing it up, revealing Kenny's face. Mysterion had saved the people of Denver one last time, but it wasn't the costume that made the hero. It was the person. And when Kyle leaned up for that last balcony kiss, he wanted Kenny to know he was the person Kyle wanted to be wrapped up in.

 

_Who is Mysterion?_

_We are._


	47. The Stinger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, dear readers! Thank you for sticking with me and making it all the way to the end of this story. The support and encouragement I've received while writing MB has been extraordinary. Many, many heartfelt thanks for welcoming me so sweetly into the South Park fandom. This story has been crazy fun for me to write, and hopefully for you to read. Every kudos and comment means so much! 
> 
> I never dreamed the word count would get this high, but new ideas just kept coming and coming, and the enthusiasm you all shared with me inspired me to go the distance. This isn't the end of my Mysterion writing, of course! Simply the conclusion of part one of the trilogy. As of right now, my outlines for parts two and three aren't nearly as long, but I suppose I shouldn't make any promises. 
> 
> Without further ado: it wouldn't be a proper modern superhero narrative without a stinger, right? Here's a little preview for what's coming next...
> 
> Much love & gratitude!  
> xo ikii

My name is Craig Tucker. Last week was my first official anniversary with Tweek. Even though we've been friends for a long time, it's only been a year since we started dating. When he said he wanted to go out with me, I was sooo happy.

Lately, though, I've started noticing more and more music playing in the streets of Denver. Live music. Wind instruments. Peruvian flute music I haven't heard since I was a kid. Since...

Nothing is going to happen. That's the thing about being the Chosen One—"one" is right in the description. You only have to be the Chosen One until a new One comes along. Then you can retire, having earned your happy ending.

Unless, of course, you die.

I did my time. I was the hero of another story, and now it's someone else's turn. No matter how much I can feel my tattoos burning. No matter how badly my eyes ache. No matter how every Peruvian flute band member makes direct eye contact with me when I pass them on the street or in the mall. Like they know.

Tweek likes the flute music. "It's Peruvian," he says, "like your tattoos." One hand holds mine, and the other toys with the cuff of my sleeve, pushing it up. I can see the markings branded into my skin, the reminder that I was once the Chosen One. The weight I have to carry. When Tweek's trembling fingers trace the Inca inscriptions, his eyes following their spindly pattern with reverence, I am glad for the first time in my life to have those tattoos.

"I'm Peruvian," I tell him. He glances at me in surprise. I don't know why I told him that. Not that it matters, but. I don't like talking about Peru. Tweek admires my tattoos again for a minute, then looks up at me through his lashes.

"I like you, too," he says. Under his fingers, my tattoos burn. Not the good burn, the warmth that comes exclusively from being close to him. The bad kind. The omen kind.

Down the hall in my room, I can hear Stripe wheeking in alarm.


End file.
